Panem
by Bohemian Anne
Summary: A crossover between The Hunger Games and Lois & Clark, in which Lois and Clark find themselves contestants in the Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
District 9  
48 ADD (After the Dark Days)

A streak of light flashed across the night sky, drawing curious gazes as it crossed what was left of a continent once known as North America. Debris fell in its wake, bringing some people from their homes and sending others into hiding.

The light disappeared as its source fell into a wheat field near a small, dilapidated farmhouse, shaking the ground and leaving a crater.

Inside the house, a man rose from where he was sitting at his wife's bedside and looked outside, seeing a fading glow from where the cooling object had landed.

"Something's out there, Martha," he said, leaning out the window and trying to get a closer look.

Martha opened her eyes, looking at him dully. "It doesn't matter, Jonathan."

Jonathan's eyes strayed to where Martha was now gazing, staring at the sad little bundle lying in what should have been its crib. Instead, for the third time, it held a stillborn infant. Jonathan and Martha Kent had never been able to produce a living child.

Jonathan tore his eyes away from the crib and headed for the door. "I'm going to go take a look."

Martha pushed herself up, looking at her husband. "Jonathan, no! We don't know what it might be—it could be something awful sent by the Capitol to punish us for what you said last week."

"What I said last week?"

"When you complained about the cut in rations for everyone last winter, even the pregnant women."

"It was just an offhand remark, Martha. I doubt anyone noticed—"

"I think a Peacekeeper noticed." Shakily, Martha got out of bed. "Jonathan, please. I don't want to know what the Capitol may have sent our way. Let's pretend we didn't notice it and let the Peacekeepers take care of it."

"It's in our fields, and if the Capitol sent it, I for damned sure want to know what it is. If they're planning something, we need to know."

"Jonathan!"

"I'm just going to take a look. I shouldn't be long."

"Not alone, you aren't." Martha slipped her feet into her well-worn shoes. "If it's some trap set by the Capitol, I'm not going to let you face it alone."

Jonathan picked up a lantern, the little oil in it sloshing as he stepped out the door. Hand-in-hand, the couple made their way down the dirt road toward where the last of the glow had vanished.

"If it is a trap, Martha, don't stay with me. Just run—go to the Irigs. If they're after anyone, it's me."

"Jonathan—" Martha stopped as her foot slipped over the edge of a hole that hadn't been there before.

Jonathan caught her before she could fall. Holding up the lantern, he looked across the wide but shallow crater, seeing the light glint off metal.

"Here it is."

They carefully picked their way into the crater, moving cautiously toward the object. A high-pitched mewling noise could be heard from inside it—like the sound of a crying baby.

"Jonathan, there's a baby in there! Some monster put a baby in there and sent it off for who knows what purpose!" She knelt beside the object, searching for a way to open it.

"Careful, Martha! It could be a trap!"

"It's a baby. We can't leave a baby out here all alone…" Her searching fingers found a small, hidden latch. In moments, the container was open, revealing a tiny baby boy. He began squalling louder as the cool night air touched his skin.

Gently, Martha picked the infant up, cradling him in her arms. His cries quieted as he nestled into her warmth.

"Look at him, Jonathan. He's a newborn—a few days old, at most. What kind of monsters put a newborn baby into a—a rocket and sent him off?"

Jonathan looked uneasily at the baby. He looked like any other child—but where had he come from? Was he some strange new experiment from the Capitol?

"Martha, what if this isn't a baby? What if this is some sort of muttation?"

She considered the idea for only a moment before shaking her head. "Muttations look different. Even the Capitol couldn't make a mutt that looks so much like a baby." She turned, starting slowly away from the rocket. "We need to get him back to the house."

"Back to the house? Martha, we can't take him!"

"We most certainly can. Whoever put him in that thing doesn't deserve him. It's bad enough that the Capitol takes older children and puts them in an arena to die—at least they have some chance! But a baby—a baby has no chance at all."

Jonathan looked at the infant in his wife's arms. "The older ones don't have much of a chance, either."

Martha's eyes misted. "I know, Jonathan. Believe me, I know."

The year before, Martha's youngest brother had been Reaped for the 47th Hunger Games. He hadn't stood a chance—he'd been killed within minutes of the gong sounding. A week later, his body had been returned to his grieving relatives. He had been buried with little ceremony in the section of the old cemetery reserved for those who died in the Hunger Games—a section most notable for the fact that it was directly behind an ancient sign proclaiming it to be the Smallville cemetery. The Capitol had designated the area deliberately—the sign, and the bones that were occasionally disinterred at a burial, reminded people of the dark times before Panem.

"I want to name him for my brother," Martha said suddenly. "There's been a Clark in every generation of my family, going back to before the Dark Days."

"Martha, how are we going to explain his presence?"

She stopped, looking at the tiny boy. "There wasn't time to fetch the midwife, so no one but us saw the birth. Have you told anyone that I gave birth to a stillborn daughter today?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No…no one but us knows—but how will we explain that we have both a living child and a dead one? When the midwife examined you a month ago, she didn't think you were carrying twins…"

"No one but us ever needs to know that our child was stillborn. We can bury her ourselves and cover the grave. People will just think we were finally able to have a live baby."

Jonathan was still uneasy, still not certain the Capitol wouldn't take the baby away and punish them for taking him in the first place, but he was softening. The loss of three babies in their five years of marriage had hit them both hard, and this child—wherever he had come from—had already worked his way into Martha's heart.

Holding up the sputtering lantern for one more look at the rocket, he noticed something—instead of the Capitol seal, there was a different sort of design on it—an "S" inside a diamond shape. He shook his head, not sure what to make of it.

Finally, he sighed, turning to his wife. "We'd better get him back to the house."

Martha adjusted the baby in her arms, cradling his head on her shoulder. "Thank you, Jonathan." She stroked the black hair on the child's head. "I can hardly believe it—after all these years, we finally have a baby of our own."

"No one can ever know that you didn't give birth to him, Martha."

"I know—and no one ever will. Tomorrow, we'll go into town and register his birth. As far as anyone will know, Clark Kent was born late in the afternoon on May 17, 48. There wasn't time to get the midwife, so you delivered him yourself. He's our baby—our first living child."

They walked slowly in the direction of the road. Just as they reached the edge of the crater, the lantern flared one last time and died, its oil depleted. They stood in silence for a moment, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the faint starlight, before moving on.

As they climbed out of the crater, Jonathan's foot dislodged a piece of soft earth covering a fragment of stone. It rolled a few inches, the stone glowing green in the darkness.

The baby jerked in Martha's arms, then started crying, his high-pitched wails of distress growing louder as Jonathan picked up the small crystal and examined it.

"Jonathan, put that away. We need to get Clark back to the house before anyone hears him and wonders what we're doing out here."

Shrugging, Jonathan put the crystal into the small compartment at the base of the lantern, latching the well-worn, lead-soldered door. Clark's cries immediately quieted, then stopped as Martha rubbed his back soothingly.

Under the cover of darkness, the small family made their way home.

*****

The next day, the Kents walked into town to register their son. Friends and acquaintances stopped to congratulate them on their new baby. Jonathan and Martha accepted the congratulations with smiles and thanks, all the while trying not to think of the tiny girl buried in a wooded area near their home, the grave unmarked and covered with scattered leaves and dead branches to prevent detection.

There was a moment of tension when it came time for the mandatory blood test given to newborns in order to identify them for the Reaping twelve years later. The new parents feared that the baby's blood would be so different from theirs that it would be discovered that he wasn't their son, but the blood tests used in the Districts were relatively unsophisticated, generally used only to identify individuals. If the technician noticed anything strange about the child's blood, she didn't say anything.

When they returned home, there was a Capitol hovercraft in front of the barn. Peacekeepers and oddly dressed Capitol officials milled around. Tamping down his fear, Jonathan gestured for Martha to take Clark into the house while he remained outside to face their visitors.

"What's going on?" he asked.

One of the least bizarre-looking officials, an intense young man with an almost insane gleam in his eye, answered.

"We got a report that something landed in this area last night. We're trying to confirm whether or not the report was accurate."

Jonathan shrugged, hiding his uneasiness. "I wouldn't know. My wife had a baby late yesterday, so we were occupied with him. We didn't go out until this morning, when we took him into town to register his birth."

"And did you see anything on your way to or from town?"

"Nothing unusual."

"And the doctor…did he see anything?"

"They use midwives here, Mr. Trask," one of the Peacekeepers interjected.

"Did the midwife see anything?" Trask continued without missing a beat.

"The baby came so quickly that there wasn't time to call the midwife," Jonathan told him. That, at least, was true.

Trask looked at him suspiciously, about to interrogate him further. Jonathan was relieved when the communication device on Trask's belt sounded, distracting him.

"Yes?" He spoke curtly into the device. His eyes narrowed after a moment. "You found a rocket? Where did you find it?"

A few minutes later, Trask put the device back on his belt and turned to Jonathan, who had been slowly moving away from him. "Well, Mr. Kent. It seems a rocket was found in one of the fields you work, along with a crater that wiped out some crops. Care to explain?"

"I…I have no idea where it came from. I haven't been out in the fields since yesterday afternoon, when Martha came to tell me she was in labor."

Trask gave him a hard look. "It also appears that there was something inside the rocket—something that is now missing."

Jonathan struggled to keep a neutral expression. "I wouldn't know."

"I think perhaps you do." He signaled to one of the Peacekeepers. "Go get a midwife."

"Mr. Trask?"

"Now!"

The Peacekeeper hurried away, sending uncertain looks back towards Trask and Kent as he went.

"I think you'd better go inside now, Mr. Kent. When the midwife arrives, we'll see if your wife really gave birth yesterday—and if that baby is really hers."

*****

Forty-five minutes later, the Peacekeeper returned with the midwife in tow. She was protesting angrily, having been called away from another patient.

Her protests ceased when she saw the assembled Capitolites and Peacekeepers. Coming to an abrupt halt, she stared at them, debating whether to attempt to run.

Trask took her arm and pushed her roughly towards the house. "I need you to confirm something."

"What?" She pulled her arm away and stepped inside.

"This man…" Trask gestured to Jonathan. "…insists that his wife gave birth yesterday afternoon—without your assistance. I need you to examine her and tell me whether or not he is telling the truth."

The midwife gave him an astonished look. It came as no surprise to her that Martha Kent had given birth without her assistance—her previous delivery had been so swift that she had barely arrived in time to catch the stillborn boy. It could easily have happened again.

Still, the man before her didn't appear to care for explanations. She knew that Martha had been pregnant, and it was just as obvious that she no longer was. She could also see that this birth had been successful, as her patient was patting the back of her just-fed newborn.

Trask gave her an impatient look. "Examine her. Now."

"All right. If you will step outside…"

"No. I need to make sure you really do it."

"This is a very intimate examination. Sometimes the husband doesn't even stay."

Trask stared at her for a moment, then went to the door. "Valeria!" he called to one of the Peacekeepers.

She looked at him quizzically.

"Come inside. I need you to supervise this examination. It seems that these people feel that a man doesn't belong at a post-birth exam—if indeed it is post-birth."

Valeria shrugged, walking into the house while trying to give Trask a wide berth. "I could have told you that," she mumbled under her breath.

The midwife gestured to Jonathan, indicating that he should leave. Fathers didn't always leave during an examination, but under the circumstances, she felt it best if no man was present.

Martha rose from her chair, carrying the now-sleeping infant to the crib. "Just a moment, Adra," she told the midwife, trying to tamp down her anxiety. She had given birth the day before. With no witnesses except Jonathan, no one could prove that she hadn't given birth to the baby lying in the crib, could they?

Adra washed quickly and conducted her exam, more concerned with the health of her patient than with proving the ridiculous idea of the strange man from the Capitol that the baby wasn't Martha's.

When the examination was over, Valeria let Trask back into the house.

"Well?" he demanded.

Adra looked at him calmly, refusing to let him intimidate her. "She did indeed give birth yesterday."

"To that?" Trask pointed to the crib.

"_That_ is a baby."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure that's a baby."

Valeria snickered from the doorway, but quickly stopped when Trask gave her a cold glare.

"Make sure," Trask told Adra.

Sighing, she went to the crib. Little Clark whimpered at being disturbed, but soon hushed as Adra rocked him gently. She quickly examined him, then laid him back in the crib to finish his nap.

"Yes," she told Trask. "That's a newborn baby." She didn't add that the umbilical stump had dried enough that it appeared to be at least a week old, or that she had never seen the device used to clamp it before. Some things didn't need to be repeated, especially not to angry strangers from the Capitol.

Trask glared at her disbelievingly for a moment before turning and marching outside. Valeria gave an apologetic look—rare for a Peacekeeper—to the two women before following him.

"What did you find?" Trask's superior demanded when he stepped outside.

"Nothing. Just a woman with a newborn."

Jonathan was listening from the shade of a nearby tree. He couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped him at Trask's words. Fortunately, no one was listening to him.

Trask's superior began to upbraid him. "There are no aliens, Jason! Every piece of junk you've ever insisted we investigate has turned out to be the same thing—the remains of a satellite that lost orbit. There's an immense amount of junk up there."

"There was something in this one. I'm sure of it. And it wasn't crumpled and half-burned like the satellites."

His superior gestured to the rocket being loaded into the hovercraft. "There probably was something in it—centuries ago! Some old experiment, maybe from the Soviet days."

Trask stiffened angrily. "It is my responsibility to protect Panem from outside threats—including aliens. Yes, they're real. Snow agrees with me—why else would he send me to investigate these occurrences?"

Secretly, Trask's superior thought that Snow put up with Trask's obsession because it amused him—but he would never say it out loud. Coriolanus Snow, the president of Panem, was a dangerous man, not one to be crossed. When he no longer found Trask amusing, he would no doubt eliminate him, but until then, it was best to keep silent.

"There's nothing more to investigate here," he told Trask. "We'll take the rocket back to the Capitol and you can give your report to President Snow."

Within a short time, the hovercraft left, taking the Capitolites with it, and the Peacekeepers returned to town, taking Adra with them and leaving the Kents alone.

Jonathan went back into the house to find Martha sitting on the bed, cradling Clark in her arms as he slept. He sat beside her and put his arms around both of them.

They sat that way for a long time, both grateful that the ordeal was over and hoping that they would be able to raise the boy they had both already grown to love in peace.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One  
District 9  
Reaping Day  
66 ADD

Clark walked with his parents toward the center of town. Today was the Reaping—the last one for him. At eighteen, he was almost past the age when he could be sent into the arena.

When they reached the Justice Building, he caught sight of three of his friends in the crowd. Indicating to his parents where he was going, he jogged off to join them.

Pete Ross was the first to catch sight of him. "Clark! Over here!" he called.

Clark winced slightly at the volume of his friend's voice, reminding himself to try to control how much he heard. He'd learned several years before that he could hear much better than anyone else, to the point that loud voices could hurt his ears and overhearing whispered conversations could let him hear things he had no business knowing. Usually, he could control how much his ears picked up, but on occasion he forgot.

When he reached his friends, one of the two girls, Rachel, hugged him in greeting. Clark hugged her back with a smile. He had taken Rachel to the dance celebrating the end of their school years, and sometimes wondered if there might be something more between them than friendship.

It was common for residents of District 9 to marry at eighteen, as soon as they were no longer in danger of being Reaped. Clark had thought along those lines himself, though not as seriously as some—Pete, he knew, was planning on proposing to the fourth member of their group, Lana, if neither of them was Reaped.

When Clark had thought about marriage, it was always with the knowledge that he would have to somehow explain—or hide—the fact that he was different from everyone else. He had known for several years that he wasn't like anyone else in District 9, though he had taken pains to hide that fact from everyone but his parents.

For the first ten years of Clark's life, he had seemed like any other kid—healthier than most, a little stronger than his age mates, perhaps a little smarter, too—but essentially like everyone else. A few people had remarked upon his lack of resemblance to his father, but the Kents were respected members of the community, so no one said it loudly—and no one said it for long. The midwife who cared for his mother during each of her three subsequent pregnancies—none of which yielded a living child—had been quick to defend the Kents and quash any rumors.

When he was ten, however, that began to change. In school, he had discovered that he could run faster than the other kids—first just a little faster, then a lot faster, easily leaving the others behind. He had continued testing his limits, and by the age of eleven he could run as fast as a horse—then faster. When he had discovered that he could run alongside a Capitol train and keep up with it, his parents had decided that it was time to tell him the truth.

Just before his twelfth birthday, Jonathan and Martha had sat Clark down and told him about the night they'd found him in a rocket in a wheat field, and about the people from the Capitol who had come looking for the rocket—and for him—the next day. They had explained to him how they had deceived the Capitolites into believing he was their own newborn son—and then had told him, for the safety of not only himself, but his parents and friends, that no one must ever know how he had come to live with them in District 9.

And that meant keeping his extraordinary abilities a secret.

Clark hadn't needed much convincing—like many kids his age, he wanted to fit in, not stand out. Standing out made a person the target of bullies, and though he could outrun any bully, their taunts still hurt. Even as a younger child, he had stood out in the classroom—he was smarter than many of the students, and excelled at writing—and some of his classmates had resented him. He might have joined them in refusing to learn had it not been for his parents' obvious disappointment in him when he didn't do as well as they knew he was capable of.

As time passed, Clark developed more unusual abilities. At thirteen, he had first shown signs of being not just a little stronger than his classmates, but extraordinarily strong—and nearly invulnerable—when the Kents' rickety old tractor had hit a bump and flipped over while he was driving it. Not only had Clark not been badly injured—he'd only suffered a few bruises and scrapes, though such accidents were often fatal—but after he had crawled out from under the tractor, he had pushed it back upright with minimal difficulty. Within a couple of months, he could not only push the tractor upright, he could lift it off the ground—and he could lift anything else he encountered, too.

Though he couldn't display his extraordinary strength and speed in public, it was a tremendous asset on the farm—he could move large loads of grain, plant a field quickly, and carry large animals that were sick or dead.

Some other abilities proved less useful, however. At fourteen, just after one of his classmates had been Reaped, he had been staring angrily in the direction of a bale of hay when it had burst into flames. Confused, Clark had quickly put the fire out, but had been forcibly reminded of the incident a week and a half later when his classmate's death had been shown during the mandatory viewing of the Hunger Games—and the television had burst into flames. The fire had once again been swiftly extinguished, the flames themselves blamed on bad wiring when the television was turned in to the Justice Building and replaced—but the Kents had suspected that this was another of Clark's abilities manifesting itself.

At home, they had worked with him, helping him to figure out what had happened, though with a safe target for the flames. Clark had soon learned to identify the sensation of heat in his eyes that presaged the beams of heat that he could cast. When he learned to use his heat vision deliberately, it was valuable for lighting the coal-burning stove that was used to cook the family's meals and heat the house, or for burning debris or diseased plants.

Unfortunately, before he learned to control his heat vision, he had managed to cause a fair amount of damage. Half an acre of oats, several bales of hay, and the porch roof had gone up in flames before his father came up with an idea to help Clark be more aware of his heat vision. Jonathan had gotten a pair of glasses that had belonged to his grandfather, and he and Clark had recycled old, broken glass into a pair of lenses that had no effect on Clark's eyesight, but did reflect the heat back to his eyes to remind him to control his heat vision.

That hadn't been the only extraordinary thing Clark could do with his vision, though. Not long after he had finally learned to control his heat vision, he had found that he could also look through things. It had scared him at first—especially when he had accidentally looked through his teacher's abdomen and seen an abnormal mass growing there. When the man had died a few months later, he had wondered if his x-ray vision was responsible, and it was only when his teacher's wife had spoken to him, telling him that although the cancer had been diagnosed a year earlier, he had hung on for the sake of his students, and had been pleased to have such an extraordinary student as Clark in his last months of life, that Clark's mind had been put at ease.

Once Clark was assured that his x-ray vision wasn't harmful to those around him, he learned to control it and make good use of it—he could find vermin in the walls of house and barn and pests in the fields. He could tell how far along a mare or a cow was in pregnancy, and whether the developing fetus was healthy, and he could see whether chicks were already growing in the eggs laid by the hens. Admittedly, like almost any teenage boy would if he found himself with the ability to see through things, he sometimes misused this talent—he peeked through the clothing of several girls before his father caught him staring at them a little too intently and replaced the plain lenses in his glasses with ones made from leaded glass in order remind him to respect others' privacy.

His strong hearing had developed at the same time as his visual abilities. It had bothered him at first—he could hear everything happening for a long distance in any direction, including things he had no wish to hear. The sound of cats fighting on the Irig farm a mile away kept him awake at night, and the sound of a mouse creeping across the floor of the main room of his house had distracted him until he couldn't concentrate on his homework. He had been more relieved to learn to control his hearing and filter out unnecessary sounds than he had been to learn to control any other ability.

By the age of seventeen, Clark's abilities seemed to have developed to their fullest. He could light fires with his eyes, run faster than anything he had ever encountered, smell disease in the crops before it ever caused a problem, lift anything without the slightest effort, use his breath to freeze meat so it lasted longer, and even leap high into trees to pick fruit or onto the roof of the barn or house to make repairs. He needed less food than his parents, especially during the summer when he worked in the sun all day, and he needed far less sleep than them, too, often slipping out of the house after they were asleep or before they awakened in the morning. He would roam through District 9 at night, occasionally helping people when they weren't aware of it—pulling stuck equipment from the mud, stopping hungry animals from ravaging crops, returning roaming livestock to its owners, and even stopping the rare crime. He was careful never to let himself be seen.

It was just before his eighteenth birthday, however, that his most amazing ability had manifested itself. He had leaped up into a tree to prune out some dead wood and, as sometimes happened, misjudged the height of his leap and gone over the tree. Instead of crashing to the ground, however, he had floated. Startled, he had panicked slightly—and promptly fell to the ground.

He knew, though, that he had been floating, and so he decided to try it again. He leaped into the air—and this time he stayed there. Wondering if he could do more than just float, he had tried moving around the tree—and discovered that he could fly.

His parents had come from the fields shortly thereafter, wondering why Clark hadn't finished his chores and come to join them. They had found him darting happily through the air amongst the trees, laughing with delight at this newfound ability.

When he'd seen them watching him, he'd dropped to the ground, landing a little too hard and winding up with his feet under the dirt. Jonathan and Martha had stared at him, not sure what to think.

Even their warnings that he needed to keep this ability hidden as well had only slightly dampened his enthusiasm for flight. Late at night, he would slip out of the house, skimming above the rooftops and trees. Soon, he tried going higher, into the clouds, where he spent a night watching lightning flash and hearing thunder rumble from below him, and had barely arrived home before sunrise.

On the night of his eighteenth birthday, Clark had decided to explore farther than District 9. He had flown past the electric fences and out over the wilderness, moving faster than any hovercraft. High in the sky, higher than any mountain, he had turned around slowly, looking across Panem. He had identified the Capitol, nestled in the Rocky Mountains—the only place, besides District 9, that he could accurately identify, as the Capitol did not permit people to possess maps of Panem for fear they would try to move from their own districts.

In the nights that followed, Clark had flown farther and farther afield, flying all around Panem. He saw the glitter of the Capitol, the semi-prosperous lives of some districts, and the crushing poverty of others. He even flew over a place he surmised to be the remains of District 13, judging from a building he remembered seeing on television, and was surprised to find that, far from being a barren wasteland, it was covered with forest. When he had landed amongst the ruined buildings and the forest, he had heard wildlife moving amongst the trees. What had surprised him even more was the sound of an alarm going off, causing him to leap skyward and fly quickly back in the direction of District 9.

Clark was pulled from his thoughts as they approached the front of the line. Letting the others go ahead of him, he discreetly bit down on his finger until he drew blood—the only way for him to give the necessary blood sample required of all children of Reaping age. It had been years since even the sharpest object could penetrate his skin.

The Peacekeeper took his hand and pricked his finger, ignoring the fact that it was already bleeding. "Clark Kent," she intoned in a bored voice, allowing him to pass.

The four friends walked into the square outside the Justice Building together. Those eligible for the Reaping were grouped by sex and age—girls on one side, boys on the other, oldest kids in the front, youngest in the back.

When they reached the eighteen-year-old section, they separated, Rachel and Lana going to stand with the girls and Clark and Pete going to stand with the boys. Before the group split up, Lana gave Pete a quick kiss, then looked at the others. "Last time," she reminded them. "And may the odds be in all of our favors."

Clark looked up at the stage. The mayor was already there, as was the District 9 escort, Marcius Elphinstone. Pete elbowed Clark in the side and they both snickered at Marcius' appearance—the man's face was dyed an improbable shade of orange, while his hair was covered by a purple wig. Clark pushed his glasses down his nose a little and x-rayed the wig—underneath, Marcius had thinning brown hair that looked, to Clark's eyes, far better than the wig covering it.

One of District 9's two living victors joined them onstage, eyes bloodshot and body reeking so strongly of the drug he had spent the day smoking that even those without Clark's enhanced sense of smell held their noses and backed away. The other, a thin woman who had won the Games in 53, was helped onstage by her husband. She looked drearily at the crowd, then flopped down in a chair and began to snore.

In the sixty-five years since the Hunger Games had begun, District 9 had had only three winners. The first, a boy who had won in 10, had died years ago, a probable suicide, though no one knew for sure. The second victor, Haver Ottosford, had won in 31. After winning, he had moved into his house in Victors' Village and planted every inch of the yard with an herb known in District 9 as magic grass. He had been smoking it ever since, sometimes supplementing it with a potent liquor he brewed in his basement from grain, fruit, and anything else he could find. The third victor, Matilda Teig, was a morphling addict whose screams could sometimes be heard after her husband hid her supply of the drug to keep her from overdosing.

After looking uncertainly at Matilda for a moment, the mayor stepped up to the podium and began the yearly speech about the history of Panem and the purpose of the Hunger Games.

"Welcome, everyone, and Happy Hunger Games!"

The residents of District 9 stared back at him stonily. No one found the Hunger Games to be a reason for celebration.

Clearing his throat, the mayor went on, "Every year, we celebrate the Hunger Games in the honor and memory of Panem's history. Before Panem, the world changed. There were droughts, storms, and fires. Earthquakes and volcanoes destroyed millions of lives, and the seas rose, wiping out much of the land. A brutal war followed for what little remained. From the ashes of this war and these disasters, Panem rose, a gleaming Capitol flanked by thirteen districts. Then came the Dark Days, when the districts rose up against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, while the thirteenth was completely destroyed. As a reminder of the Dark Days, to ensure that they never happen again, the Hunger Games were established. Each year, each district sends two tributes, one male and one female, to represent them in a battle to the death. The last tribute standing wins, bringing honor to their district."

Concluding his speech, the mayor stepped away from the podium. No one applauded.

Marcius stepped up to the first Reaping bowl, the one containing the girls' names. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Everyone bowed their heads, avoiding looking at him. Though catching his eye had no effect on whether or not a person was chosen as a tribute, the superstition remained. No one would look at him for fear they would be chosen.

Marcius reached into the bowl, withdrawing a slip of paper. "Becky Rasen."

A small, painfully thin blonde girl emerged from the group of thirteen-year-olds. She walked slowly toward the stage, her eyes wide with fright.

An unhappy murmur came from the crowd. No one liked to see thirteen-year-olds Reaped. In all the years the Games had been going on, none had ever survived.

The murmurs were cut off as the Peacekeepers moved threateningly toward the crowd, weapons held ready.

"Maybe she has a chance," Pete whispered to Clark. "Last year a fourteen-year-old won."

Clark shook his head, looking at the girl as she almost fell climbing the steps. The previous year's victor, Finnick Odair, had indeed been fourteen, but he'd also been from District 4, a career district, and had been sent a trident as a gift. In his skilled hands, the trident had ensured his win. In stark contrast, Becky was from a large, chronically undernourished family that worked in one of the factories, processing District 9's immense grain crop for Capitol consumption. Even with the tesserae taken by the children of Reaping age, the family never had enough to eat, and Clark could tell from listening to her that she was in poor health, her difficulty in breathing probably caused by years of exposure to grain dust. In District 9, she would probably not survive to adulthood; in the arena, she almost certainly would not survive the bloodbath.

"Are there any volunteers?" Marcius asked. "Does anyone want to volunteer for a chance at greatness?"

No one said a word. Becky's sisters ducked their heads, unable to look her in the eye. Family loyalty was in short supply on Reaping day.

Marcius shook his head and sighed. No one ever volunteered in District 9, where the families of tributes started mourning as soon as they were selected. No one regarded the Hunger Games as a chance for glory.

He turned to the bowl containing the boys' names. Clark ducked his head lower, resisting the temptation to use his x-ray vision to see whose name had been chosen. He could only hope it wasn't him.

In the past, Clark had considered volunteering for the Hunger Games, knowing he could save the life of another boy, but his parents had forbidden it. They didn't want him in the Capitol's hands, knowing that their unusual son would be of great interest to the scientists there. They didn't know if he was a Capitol experiment, as they had originally theorized, or if he was an alien, as the bizarre Jason Trask had believed, but if the Capitol officials found out what he could do, they would stop at nothing to control him—and his differences would be very hard to hide in the arena.

Clark didn't give much credence to the idea that he could be an alien—District 9 had legends about aliens, but they all involved small green men with oddly shaped heads. Since Clark looked like anyone else, he felt that it was safe to assume that he was the result of some strange experiment.

He realized that his parents were right, though. If he was the result of a Capitol experiment, they would want him back, and they might very well punish his parents and even his whole district for keeping him hidden for so many years. That no one but his parents knew what he could do wouldn't matter—the Capitol wasn't known for its mercy.

And so Clark had kept his head bowed and his mouth shut as, year after year, boys from District 9 were sent into the arena to die. It had killed him inside to see them suffer when he knew there was something he could have done to prevent it, but for the sake of his family and his district, he had to stay silent.

So far, the odds had been in his favor. Though he'd had to take the tesserae three times in order to keep his family from starving—first when a drought had reduced the farm's yield by a third, then when he was learning to control his heat vision and had wiped out some of the oat crop, and finally when a tornado had struck near harvest time and destroyed most of the corn—his name had never been selected. He had sixteen slips in the Reaping bowl, but out of thousands—the odds were still in his favor.

Marcius reached into the bowl and withdrew a slip of paper. When he read the name, Clark was forcibly reminded that even favorable odds weren't a guarantee.

"Clark Kent."

Clark's head shot up in alarm. He heard his mother's shocked gasp and his father's quiet cursing. He saw the stricken looks on his friends' faces. For a moment, he was tempted to flee, to simply leap into the air and fly away, far beyond the reach of the Capitol.

Then his conscience asserted itself. He might be able to escape, but his parents and friends could not. The people of his district, whom he had grown up with and worked alongside, would not be able to escape. If he fled, all of them would suffer.

Slowly, head held high, Clark detached himself from the rest of the eighteen-year-olds and headed for the stage. He stood beside Becky and looked out at the people of District 9.

Once again, Marcius asked for volunteers. Once again, no one spoke up.

The mayor read the Treaty of Treason while scenes from the Dark Days played on the screen above the stage. When he was finished, he gestured for Clark and Becky to shake hands.

Becky was terrified, shaking so hard that she could hardly extend her hand. Clark reached for her hand and shook it gently, wishing he could reassure her but knowing he couldn't. He fought to keep his own face neutral, knowing that from now on, whether he survived the arena or died in it, he could do nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion that he wasn't exactly what he seemed—just another tribute from District 9.

They turned back to face the crowd. Marcius stepped up to the podium and gestured to them. "Congratulations to this year's tributes, Becky Rasen and Clark Kent!"

No one applauded. Instead, every person in the crowd bowed their heads and placed their right hands over their hearts in a gesture of farewell to their children.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Within minutes of the end of the Reaping, a group of Peacekeepers escorted Clark and Becky into the Justice Building. Most of them concentrated on making sure Clark went where he was told, with only one prodding Becky along as she coughed and struggled not to cry.

Clark wondered what they would have done if they had known how impossible it would be to control him if he had refused to cooperate. He could escape so easily, take them all out before they knew what had hit them—but he wouldn't. They were just doing their jobs, and didn't deserve to die anymore than he or Becky did.

The tributes were placed in separate rooms for the last hour before they were to board the train to the Capitol, giving their families and friends a chance to visit them one last time. Clark could hear Becky crying in the next room as he waited for his parents and friends to arrive.

Jonathan and Martha were the first to arrive. Martha threw her arms around her son, her tears soaking into his shirt.

Clark hugged her back. "Mom, it'll be okay," he told her. "I can do this. You know I can."

"You hope you can!" she replied angrily. "Clark, you're not invincible. You can die. If there's any of that horrible rock in the arena…"

"I know, Mom." Clark hugged her tighter, looking over at his father. "I hope there won't be."

Clark was all too aware that there was a sizable chink in his invulnerability. The night he had arrived in his parents' wheat field, the rocket had been accompanied by a meteor shower consisting in large part of glowing green stones. Chunks of it had fallen all over Panem, some of it embedding itself in the earth and other pieces lying on the surface of the ground. It had quickly become a popular item for jewelry amongst Capitolites and even the residents of the career districts.

The stone, quickly dubbed neonite or kryptonite by television commentators for the way it glowed like those gases, was harmless to normal people. Clark, unfortunately, wasn't normal.

As a child, he had rarely been sick—except when exposed to the green stone. His father had found that shard of kryptonite in the crater Clark had been found in. It had been years before the Kents realized the effect it had on their son—he had been temporarily exposed twice as a baby, once when the stone was found and once when his father had removed it from the base of the lantern where it had been stored, but neither of his parents had made the connection between his cries and the kryptonite shard. Jonathan had buried it in the dirt floor of a seldom-used shed, fearing that if the Capitol officials came back, they would find it and ask more questions.

When Clark was twelve, Jonathan, who had long since forgotten about the piece of kryptonite, had torn down the half-collapsed old shed. While removing the tools stored there, he had uncovered the stone and, remembering the night he had found it, had brought it into the house to show to his wife. They had reminisced about the night they found their son. He then set it on a shelf beside the lantern to show to Clark later.

When Clark had come home from school, he had begun to complain that he didn't feel well. Since he was never sick, his parents had been concerned, but Clark had felt better when he went out to the barn to help his father take care of the animals. As a result, they hadn't worried too much about it.

When he had returned to the house for dinner, Clark had once again begun complaining that he didn't feel well. He hadn't wanted to eat—though he had never refused food before—and had sat hunched over in his chair, holding his head. When Martha had placed a hand on his forehead, she had discovered that he was feverish. She had set his food aside and they both helped him to his bed.

Sometime later, Clark had been starting to feel better, since the kryptonite was in another room. When Jonathan had gone to his room later to check on him, Clark told him that he was starting to feel better. Jonathan told him that he had something to show him and had returned with the piece of stone.

Clark had immediately curled up in pain, clutching his throbbing head and whimpering in agony. His father had hurried over to him, still holding the shard of kryptonite. Clark had cringed away, instinctively trying to get away from the source of his pain. Then he threw up for the first time in his life and collapsed, barely conscious.

It was only then that Jonathan realized what the problem was. He quickly took the kryptonite away, putting it in the lantern's base to protect Clark from the radiation. He and Martha attended to Clark, fearing the worst, but within a short time, the boy was sitting up and feeling better.

That hadn't been Clark's last experience with kryptonite, though. When he was sixteen, he had been plowing near the crater where he had been found when the plow had unearthed a sizable chunk of it. Two hours later, his parents found him lying unconscious in the dirt, the glowing rock only a few feet away. Jonathan carried him back to the house while Martha took the kryptonite and buried it where it wasn't likely to be disturbed.

The effects had been worse that time. Clark hadn't awakened until well into the next day, and when he had, his head was pounding mercilessly and his stomach was churning. His strange abilities had disappeared and did not return for three days, during which time he had to learn all over again to be careful around hot or sharp objects, winding up with several minor burns and cuts before his skin toughened again and his strength returned.

After that, Clark had used his x-ray vision to check the fields before working in them, noting the location of several pieces of kryptonite and allowing his parents to remove them before he went to work. Jonathan and Martha had buried the kryptonite deep in the ground and told Clark where it was so he wouldn't accidentally dig it up.

None of this would have been a problem were it not for the fact that kryptonite had been present in the arena during three of the last four Hunger Games. Two years earlier, it had been the deciding factor for the winner of the Games—not because the radiation was dangerous to humans, but because kryptonite could be chipped like flint into a knife as sharp as any made of metal. The winner of the 64th Hunger Games had made a kryptonite dagger and used it to cut the throat of her final opponent.

It was this knowledge that made Martha fear for Clark's life. Without kryptonite, he was unstoppable. With it, he was as vulnerable as anyone else—perhaps even more, because it made him so sick. None of them was entirely certain if the substance could kill him outright—though they suspected it could—but in the arena, that wouldn't matter. If kryptonite was present and he couldn't get away from it, another tribute could kill him easily.

Jonathan wrapped one arm around his crying wife and the other around his son. "Don't try to be a hero, Clark. When the gong sounds, run. Get as far away from everyone else as you can." Fearing that the room was bugged, he leaned closer, whispering so quietly that only Clark's superhearing could pick up his words. "You can go longer without food and water and rest than the others. And whatever you do, don't let anyone see what you can do. When you rest, be sure to secure yourself so you don't float. There are cameras everywhere in the arena, and the last thing you need is to be seen floating."

"I will, Dad," Clark assured him. "I'll do everything I can to come home alive and safe."

It wasn't just Clark's physical safety that his parents feared for. Their son was a gentle soul—he hated causing pain to others. His parents had taught him kindness and compassion, reinforcing those lessons when it became apparent that he would be very strong and could be extremely dangerous if he chose to be.

The lessons had worked. Clark had only lost his temper to the point of hurting someone once when, at age thirteen, he had struck back at a bully and broken the other boy's arm. He'd felt terrible about it, apologizing to the boy and sticking up for him when other kids had started taunting him, and after that had refused to fight with anyone, no matter what the provocation.

In the arena, though, there was no place for kindness or compassion, and Jonathan and Martha feared what would happen to their son if he was forced to kill another tribute.

Clark wrapped his arms around both of his parents. They stood that way for a few minutes, offering each other silent support, until the Peacekeepers let Clark's friends in.

Lana was crying and Pete looked devastated. Rachel stood back, comforting Lana and waiting for a moment to talk to Clark alone.

Pete went up to Clark first. "Clark…damn! I'm sorry…I should have volunteered to take your place—"

"No, you shouldn't have," Clark interrupted him. "Volunteering for the Games is suicide…that's why no one does it. You have too much to live for here to throw your life away. You're going to marry Lana and—"

"I'm not even sure if she'll say yes," Pete confessed.

"I think she will," Clark told him, not mentioning that he had overheard a conversation between Lana and Rachel just before the Reaping had begun in which Lana had told Rachel that if Pete didn't ask to marry her, she would ask him. "And when I get back, I expect to be invited to the wedding."

Pete gulped, ducking his head. He didn't want to speculate on the odds of Clark ever returning.

"Sure…if you make it back…"

"Don't say that, Pete!" Lana remonstrated from across the room. "Clark's strong. He might have a chance." She and Rachel walked over to them, Rachel catching Clark's eye and nodding at a corner of the room to indicate she wanted to talk to him alone.

"Clark…" Rachel began when he had followed her a little way away from the others. "I…" She bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."

"For what? You didn't choose to be Reaped!"

"No, but…" Clark fell silent, not sure what he really meant. Was he sorry that he hadn't tried harder to see where their relationship might have gone? Sorry that he'd hid so many things from her—and his other friends—over the years? Sorry that his Reaping into the Hunger Games might spell the deaths of all them? He didn't know.

"Clark…thank you for being such a good friend all these years. Thank you for taking me to the dance. If…if you come back—" She suddenly leaned forward and kissed him, quickly pulling back. "—I'll be waiting." She turned and hurried away.

Several Peacekeepers came in, indicating that Clark's family and friends should leave. Clark hugged each of them quickly as the Peacekeepers grew increasingly impatient.

He was surprised when his father pressed something into his hand. Holding it up, he realized that it was a small, framed photo of himself and his parents—one of the few pictures that had ever been taken of them. Jonathan carried it every Reaping day for luck.

"You're allowed to carry a token from your district into the arena with you," Jonathan told him. "Keep this with you—and remember what you're fighting for."

Nodding, Clark hugged his father one last time before the Peacekeepers surrounded him, escorting him in the direction of the train.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

District 9's train station was only a short distance from the Justice Building, so it was only minutes until Clark, Becky, Marcius, and District 9's two victors boarded the train for the Capitol. Becky kept her head ducked the whole time, trying to hide her tear-stained face, while Clark kept his face carefully blank. Any sign of weakness made a tribute a target.

The Peacekeepers surrounded them until they were aboard the train and it had begun to move. The tributes stood at a window, watching the grain fields of District 9 as they flashed past.

Marcius and the victors looked at the tributes, Marcius smiling, the victors looking grim.

"Why don't I show you to your compartments?" Marcius said, gesturing to Clark and Becky. "I'll bet you've never seen anything like this before—fine clothing, the latest technology—not what you'd see on the farm! Oh, and dinner is in two hours, so be sure you're back out here by then."

Once there, it occurred to Clark that most of what was in his train compartment wouldn't be found anywhere in District 9. Everything was new and bright—not the well-worn items that most of the people of District 9 made do with. Well-crafted wood without splinters, metal without the patina of age, a deep, soft carpet, faucets with both cold and **hot** running water…all of them were almost unimaginable luxuries.

He had never used a shower before, and it took him a few minutes to figure out how it worked, drenching himself in the process. **Hot** running water was unavailable on the Kent farm. Water from the faucets there was cold and had to be heated on the stove, although in recent years Clark had used his heat vision to warm water, something his parents appreciated at the end of a long day in the fields.

When Clark went looking through the drawers for dry clothes, he was surprised at the variety of sizes and styles. Some of the clothes were so small that the boys they were made for couldn't have been much bigger than toddlers, while others were so large that he marveled that anyone could be so wide and tall.

He knew little about fashion or fine fabrics, but he did recognize quality—and much of what was in the drawers wouldn't last a day on the farm. He was relieved when he finally found some familiar-looking clothes that fit him.

When Clark left his compartment and went looking for the others, he found them sitting in a dining room around a table made from some dark wood he didn't recognize. Only Becky was absent.

Marcius looked past him. "Where's Becky?" he asked Clark.

"I don't know."

Grumbling, Marcius got up to look for her. He returned a few minutes later, Becky trailing behind him, still clad in her worn District 9 clothing.

Matilda, far more alert now than she had been during the Reaping, looked at the girl critically. "Why didn't you change?"

Becky shrugged, avoiding Matilda's gaze. "I already put on fresh clothes today."

"_He_ figured it out," Matilda told her, gesturing to Clark.

"My clothes got soaked while I was trying to figure out how to use the shower."

Marcius mumbled something about the ignorance of District 9 tributes, then sighed. "Well, the Avoxes are about to serve dinner, so sit down."

In moments, three servants appeared in the dining room, laden with platters of food. Others moved silently around the table, hurrying to put out plates and cutlery and then setting out the meal on the table.

Clark looked at the Avoxes curiously. He had heard that they were traitors to Panem who were punished by having their tongues cut out and being forced into servitude. A few people had disappeared from District 9 over the years and were rumored to have become Avoxes, but no one knew for sure.

Pushing his glasses down as though to rub the bridge of his nose, Clark quickly x-rayed the servants' mouths, confirming that their tongues were missing. Appalled, he pushed his glasses back into place, wondering what constituted treason and why it was bad enough to warrant permanently disabling a person.

"Go ahead and eat," Marcius told them, signaling to one of the Avoxes to bring him a drink. "After dinner, we'll watch the recaps of the Reaping."

Haver groaned, tossing back the alcoholic beverage he had been consuming and pointing to his glass for a refill. "It's the same thing every year. The Careers fight over who gets to be in the Games while everyone else looks like they're going to their executions."

"Which they are," Matilda added, taking a sip of the brightly-colored concoction in front of her.

Haver narrowed his eyes at her. "_We_ survived."

Matilda shrugged. "If you can call this surviving."

Clark glanced from the bickering victors to Becky, who was piling her plate with the delicacies in front of her.

"You might want to go easy on that," Haver told her. "Too much of this rich stuff will make you sick if you're not used to it."

Becky glanced at him briefly, then grabbed a spoon, shoveling food into her mouth as though she hadn't eaten in days—which she probably hadn't.

Clark looked at the platters. Being from a smaller family, he was better fed than Becky, and needed less food, too, but it still looked and smelled good. More calmly than Becky, he served himself, taking Haver's warning to heart—though he doubted that overeating would make him sick. There was very little he couldn't eat.

Watching what Becky was doing, Marcius looked disgusted. "At least we have one tribute with decent manners," he said, looking approvingly at Clark.

"Leave the girl alone." Matilda came to Becky's defense. "She's probably never had a decent meal in her life. Besides, what does it matter? She'll be dead in a week anyway."

At this, Becky went white. She choked on her mouthful of food for a moment, then dropped her spoon and ran from the table.

Everyone else turned to stare at Matilda. Even Marcius looked faintly appalled.

"That was uncalled for!" Haver thundered at Matilda.

"It's the truth!" Matilda snapped back. "Sometimes the truth hurts!"

"Haven't we lost enough tributes without taking away their hope before they ever get to the arena?"

"I'm sick of mentoring kids who die five minutes after the Games start. Hell, even if they win, they'll wish they hadn't. Once Snow gets his hands on them—"

"Shut up, Matilda!" Haver roared.

Matilda looked at him defiantly, grabbing her glass and taking a swig. She was about to reply to Haver when Clark spoke up.

"I thought you were supposed to mentor us. You know, teach us how to stay alive."

Matilda laughed bitterly. "That's easy. All that takes is two words. Don't die."

"Why don't you tell us something we don't know?" Clark slammed his fork down with unnecessary force, cracking his plate. His appetite gone, he stood up. "Excuse me."

Clark made his way down the hall. When he reached Becky's door, he knocked gently.

"Becky? Are you okay?"

His only answer was a sob.

"Becky?" Clark eased the door open.

It took him a moment to find her. She was curled up in a corner of the bed, the bedspread over her head.

"Go away!" Her words were muffled. She peeked out at him, her eyes wide and terrified.

Clark sat down in a chair by the door, realizing how she viewed him—not as a boy from her district, but as her potential murderer.

"Becky, I'm not going to hurt you," he said gently.

Becky didn't reply. She curled up tighter, clutching the bedspread as though it could protect her.

"Becky, we're allowed to have allies in the arena. I can protect you—"

"Until you kill me!" Becky looked out at him again. "Or until someone kills you."

"It won't be me that hurts you, Becky. I promise you that."

"Then someone else will."

"You don't know that. A fourteen-year-old won last year."

"From a Career district!"

Seeing that there was no reassuring her, Clark fell silent. He knew as well as she did that there was little hope for her, but he still hated seeing her give up so easily.

Not wanting to go back to the tension-filled dining room, Clark tried to think of something else to say. When he couldn't think of anything, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of his family. He sat staring at it and remembering his father's words until Becky's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What's that?"

Clark looked up to see Becky looking at him cautiously from beneath the bedspread. After he had fallen silent, she had become curious enough to wonder what he was doing.

"This is a picture of my family. My dad gave it to me as my token in the arena." He held it out to her. "Would you like to see it?"

Becky nodded, taking the photo from him. She looked at it for a moment before handing it back to him.

"I don't think my family has any pictures," she whispered. She looked up at him. "I do have a token, though." Reaching into a pocket of her dress, she pulled out a small wooden ball. "This is my little brother's. He said he always wins the games he plays with it, so he gave it to me so I would win." Holding it out, she offered it to him to look at.

Clark took the toy and examined it. It was well-worn and had clearly been played with for a long time, but it was something that few children would want to give up. He'd had a similar toy when he was a child.

He handed it back to her. "May the odds be ever in your favor, Becky Rasen."

She looked down, tears threatening again. "Only one person gets to go home. I just hope it doesn't hurt too much when…when I—"

"It's time to watch the Reaping recaps."

Clark and Becky looked up, startled, as Marcius stuck his head in the door. He gestured to them somewhat impatiently. "It's much too early to go to bed," he told Becky, "and **you**—" He pointed to Clark. "—shouldn't be in here anyway."

"We were just talking—" Clark began, but Marcius waved him off.

"Hurry, or you'll miss the recaps. In spite of what Haver says, they're always exciting."

Reluctantly, Clark and Becky followed him to the viewing compartment. They had seen the recaps of the Reapings every year of their lives—it was mandatory viewing—and neither had ever found it exciting, especially not when viewing their own district.

For the most part, the Reaping was exactly as Haver had predicted.

The kids from the Career districts—Districts 1, 2, and 4—argued furiously over who got the honor of going into the arena. A fight broke out between two large boys from District 4 before one emerged triumphant to volunteer for the Games.

Becky gave an involuntary whimper at the sight of the boy from District 4, burying her face in her hands before Haver gently reminded her that she was required to watch.

The Reapings in the non-Career districts were largely predictable—names were drawn and the tributes walked miserably to the stage. No one volunteered.

Clark's attention was drawn for a moment to the female tribute from District 3, a pretty brunette who faced the audience with her chin raised proudly, her eyes defiant. _That girl isn't going down without a fight,_ he thought to himself.

His thoughts were soon pulled from her, though, when the Reaping from District 11 was shown. When the male tribute was selected, a woman in the audience screamed. "No! Not my baby! Please, no! He's my only son!"

She shoved her way through the crowd, grabbing the boy—a skinny twelve-year-old—and refusing to let go of him. "Take someone else! Not my—"

In an instant, things turned ugly. Several Peacekeepers came running, pulling the boy from her arms and forcing her to her knees. Before the woman had time to say another word, one of the Peacekeepers pressed a gun to the back of her head and a shot rang out. There was ugly laughter from the Peacekeepers as the dead woman slumped to the ground, blood pooling around her.

Three small girls tried to run to her, screaming for their mother. Before they could, an elderly man pushed through the crowd to them. He was holding them as tightly as he could as the Peacekeepers shoved their brother up onto the stage.

Apparently the Capitol couldn't get enough of this "exciting" tragedy, as it was replayed in slow motion and close detail a second time. When it began to play a third time, Clark, sickened by what he had seen, glanced around to make sure no one was watching him and then aimed a quick blast of heat vision at the television.

It shorted out with a popping sound. Marcius jumped up, fiddling angrily with it. When it became obvious that it was broken, he began to rant angrily.

"**Great**! Just great! We'll have to wait until we're in the Capitol to finish the recaps. District 12 is almost never a contender," he informed Clark and Becky, "but their Reaping is always good for a laugh. Just last year, the female tribute had to be dragged up to the stage kicking and screaming, and then that drunken victor of theirs puked on a camera. 12 is the laughingstock of Panem—with an emphasis on laughing! We'll be able to see it in the Capitol, but it's never as much fun to watch later as it is the first night!"

He sounded genuinely disappointed.

Becky had started crying again. A moment later, she rushed from the compartment, running to her room. No one tried to stop her.

Clark clasped his hands together, keeping them away from the arms of his chair, which had already splintered slightly in his grip. He had seen the recaps of the Reapings every year of his life, but it had never seemed so horrific as it did this year. He didn't know why he felt that way—perhaps it was because he was now a tribute himself. Perhaps it was because the mother in District 11 had reminded him of his own mother, with her boundless determination to protect her son, or it might be because of the girl from District 3, with her pride and defiance, who was almost certainly doomed.

He got up abruptly, his chair falling over backwards unnoticed.

"Where do you think you're going?" Marcius demanded.

"I'm tired. I'm going to go lay down." Without waiting for a reply, Clark stalked from the room.

All the way back to his compartment, he fought the urge to simply keep going, to crash through the last car of the train and fly off, getting himself and Becky to someplace safe.

He didn't because there wasn't any place safe. There wasn't any place he could go where innocent people wouldn't suffer the consequences of his actions.

When Clark reached his room, he threw himself down on the bed. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the images of the Reaping, but he couldn't.

In the end, he tucked himself tightly into bed so he wouldn't float when he fell asleep.

Sleep never came to him, though. Clark lay awake the whole night, staring at the ceiling and dreading the days to come.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
The Capitol

Dawn was just breaking when Marcius came to awake the two tributes, but Clark and Becky were already up. Days began early in District 9 and neither tribute had gotten much rest the night before.

Becky was coughing pitifully as she came to the dining room and she had dark circles under her eyes. Clark joined her a few minutes later, looking almost as tired.

The Avoxes hurried to serve them their breakfast while Haver and Matilda dragged themselves to the table. Both looked hung over. Neither victor touched the food, but instead accepted cups of coffee from the servants, which they alternately stared into and sipped.

Clark and Becky didn't hesitate to eat. In spite of the situation, both were hungry. Clark accepted a cup of coffee as well, adding a goodly amount of milk and sugar to it. He'd drunk coffee a couple of times before, but liked it better when well-sweetened.

Becky tried the coffee too, but after one sip put it down and concentrated on the food. She reached for the cup a couple more times, trying to convince herself to drink it, but when an Avox offered her a sweet-smelling beverage instead, she accepted it, but looked at it warily.

"It's hot chocolate," Haver told her reassuringly, cradling his head in his hands. "You'll probably like it better."

Becky nodded and tasted the concoction. When she did, her countenance lit up and she drained the cup completely before continuing with her breakfast.

Marcius came in, looking impossibly cheerful. "You have quite a day ahead of you," he told the tributes. "We'll reach the Capitol in about half an hour. You'll be meeting with your stylists, and then tonight is the tribute parade. That's always a favorite of the Capitol. You'll hear President Snow speak, and then you'll go on to the Training Center. Tomorrow, you'll start training for the Games, but today the Capitol will meet you."

Clark looked away from Marcius, concentrating on his food. He hoped his stylists wouldn't try to cut his hair or give him a tattoo—attempting either would show, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was different.

The room suddenly darkened and the lights automatically came on as the train entered the tunnels leading toward the Capitol. With the Capitol's location being in the mountains as it was, the only way it could be accessed, by train, from the east was through a series of tunnels. It was a factor that had led to the districts' defeat in the Dark Days.

By the time the train reemerged into the sunlight, both tributes and victors were standing at the windows of the viewing car. The train slowed as it came into the Capitol, giving them a good view of the garishly attired Capitol citizens who stood on platforms along the tracks, pointing and waving when they caught sight of the tributes.

"You should wave back at them," Haver told Clark. "You never know when someone might remember you and decide to sponsor you in the arena."

Matilda nodded, looking Clark up and down. "With sponsors, _you_ might actually stand a chance."

Clark wanted nothing to do with them, but he knew that she was right—and if he kept Becky with him, any gifts he received might also benefit her. Putting on a smile he didn't feel, he waved back at the crowds. Beside him, Becky, following his lead, did the same thing.

Both tributes looked around with interest when they disembarked from the train. They had seen the Capitol on television—and Clark had seen it in person during some of his late night flights around Panem—but seeing it in person, in the daylight, was different. It was indeed beautiful—even if that beauty came at the expense of the people of the districts.

They didn't have time to look around much, though, before they were herded into the Remake Center to meet their stylists.

*****

Clark stood awkwardly in the middle of a room in the Remake Center, gritting his teeth as his prep team walked around him slowly, examining him from every angle.

They had already scrubbed him thoroughly, removing every bit of dirt he might have acquired in his life. Clark had always thought that he was reasonably clean, but by Capitol standards, he had been filthy. The prep team had also attempted to manicure his nails, making him glad that he had used his heat vision to trim them the day of the Reaping—since they were already short and neat, they had settled for scraping the dirt from under them and then left them alone.

Now they circled him, poking and prodding and making him long for the thin robe they occasionally allowed him to wear. He couldn't remember a time in his life when anyone had examined him so closely. It made him very uncomfortable.

Finally, the one woman in the group stepped back and shook her head. "I don't think there's anything else for us to do," she said. "Personally, I think you could use a little color for your skin—blue might be nice—but Rosaline prefers the 'natural' look. Aside from that—well, you can't fix perfection." She gave Clark a look that had him blushing.

When the prep team left, Clark scrambled for his robe at almost superspeed. He would have preferred the clothes he had been wearing on the train, but he had no idea where they were—and he doubted that anyone would have told him if he had asked.

It wasn't long before Rosaline, his stylist, arrived. She gestured for him to disrobe and walked around looking at him, but without the prurient interest that the woman from his prep team had displayed.

"Yes, this will work quite well," she murmured to herself. She handed him back his robe. "Go ahead and get dressed. Lunch is about to be served. While we eat, I'll explain about the opening ceremonies and the costumes for them."

*****

Hours later, Clark and Becky stepped into the elevator that would take them to the bottom level of the Remake Center. They glanced at each other in silence.

Becky's stylist, Belarius, and Rosaline had worked together to dress their tributes in what they thought of as farm-style costumes—tight jeans and a checked shirt for Clark, and a matching checked pinafore dress and white blouse for Becky. The clothes looked normal enough, though they were brighter and less practical than anything that would have been worn on a District 9 farm.

To be sure that everyone watching understood the farming theme, Belarius and Rosaline had also constructed grain-themed headdresses for the tributes. Stalks of wheat, rye, and barley were woven into crowns that fitted tightly to their heads.

Clark thought that Becky's headdress made her look innocent and faintly angelic. On the contrary, he thought his own made him look ridiculous. Haver had warned him not to object to anything his stylist wanted to do, however, so he pretended he didn't know how strange he looked.

Displaying her growing trust of Clark, Becky stayed close to him as they entered the lowest level of the Remake Center, a large stable where pairs of tributes were being loaded into chariots. Her eyes were wide and frightened as she looked at the others.

Not all of the tribute pairs were being as cooperative. The girl from District 4 was whispering flirtatiously with the boy from District 1 while their respective district partners glowered at them. The pair from District 3 was arguing loudly while their stylists tried to calm them and the nearby Peacekeepers watched them nervously. The tributes from District 12 were trying to hide from each other and everyone else, because they were both stark naked and covered in black dust. This was done to represent coal dust, since they were from a mining district.

It took a while, but eventually all the tributes were loaded into the chariots—one chariot for each district. The well-trained pairs of horses pulling each chariot didn't shy at the chaos, and were so familiar with the route that no one needed to take the reins.

The District 9 chariot jerked slightly as it began to move. Becky gasped, startled, and nearly fell.

Clark reached out to steady her. Realizing how small she looked, he thought for a moment, then leaned down to her, and said, "You wave. I'll keep us steady." In one fluid motion, he picked her up and set her on his shoulders, holding her steady with one hand while with the other he grasped the front of the chariot.

When the chariots pulled out onto the City Circle, the crowd roared with approval. Hundreds of the Capitol's wealthiest and most well-connected citizens sat in comfortable seats along the street, while others crowded in behind them, finding space wherever they could.

Some people shouted with approval at the sight of the District 9 chariot, throwing roses at them. Becky caught one and, taking a cue from some female tributes in the chariots ahead of them, blew a kiss in the general direction from which it had come. She looked down at Clark and grinned, finding this part of being a tribute something she could enjoy.

It didn't take long for the chariots to circle the parade route, and soon the horses slowed and then came to a stop in front of President Snow's mansion.

Snow stepped up onto the balcony and looked out at the cheering crowd and the assembled tributes. Raising his hands for quiet, he smiled, but the smile never quite reached his eyes.

"Tributes," Snow said, "we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice. We wish you Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The crowd cheered, as did the tributes from the Career districts. The other tributes looked at Snow in astonishment, wondering if he really believed that they had voluntarily sacrificed themselves.

Clark took Becky from his shoulders as Snow's eyes swept the tributes, trying to make her less visible. Something about the president of Panem reminded him of the venomous snakes he sometimes encountered in District 9—cold, emotionless, and deadly.

Clark raised a hand to cover his nose, wondering if anyone else could smell the strange odor coming from Snow—an unpleasant mixture of abnormally sweet roses and blood. He didn't know where the smell of blood came from, and he didn't dare look too closely at him in front of the crowd. Nonetheless, the smell was overwhelming, so he was glad when the chariots moved along, finally depositing the tributes at the Training Center, their home until the Games began.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

It had been utterly quiet and peaceful, allowing Clark to get some much-needed rest, until there was a sudden pounding on the door and a shouted, "Rise and shine!"

Clark awoke, startled, as Marcius knocked on the door of his room. He landed with a thud on the floor, only then realizing that he'd forgotten to secure himself the night before and had been floating in his sleep.

Not waiting for Clark to answer, Marcius barged in a moment later. He stared in consternation at the boy lying in a tangle of pillows and blankets on the floor clear across the room from the bed.

"What are you doing over there?" he demanded, raising an eyebrow at Clark.

Clark thought quickly. "I … ah … the bed was too soft, so I thought I'd sleep on the floor instead."

Marcius rolled his eyes. "Barbarians," he mumbled, unaware that Clark could hear every word. "Luxury is wasted on these outer district barbarians." In a normal tone of voice, he added, "Well, get up. You have a busy day ahead of you. You'll talk to your mentors at breakfast, then start training at ten, where you'll meet the other tributes."

Clark untangled himself from the bedding and looked for his glasses. Finding them, he placed them on his face and then stared at Marcius through them, as he asked, "But didn't we meet them yesterday?"

"When? Oh, you mean the tribute parade?" Marcius shook his head. "Not officially. Last night, you were representing your _districts_. Today, you'll be representing _yourselves_." He glanced at his watch. With a touch of asperity in his voice, he said, "Now, you need to hurry. Shower and get dressed, then join us in the dining room." He shook his head as Clark moved to pick up the pile of bedding. With a tone of annoyance, he said, "That's an Avox's job. Yours is to get ready for the day."

As soon as Marcius stepped out and the door closed behind him, Clark picked up the pile of pillows and blankets and put them back on the bed. His parents had taught him to clean up after himself, and he didn't plan to stop just because he was in the Capitol.

After he showered, he dressed in a training uniform. Clark thought about how Marcius had found him and realized that he would have to be more careful in the future. If the man hadn't knocked before coming in, he would have caught Clark sleeping on the ceiling — that was something he would have been hard-pressed to explain. At home, it didn't matter — his parents were well-aware that he sometimes floated while sleeping, and sometimes they even found it amusing, but it was a secret he needed to keep from the rest of Panem.

Ordinarily, Clark would have been awake much earlier, but he hadn't slept at all on the train, and very little the night before the Reaping. Few kids of Reaping age slept well the night before the event, and Clark had slipped out of the house at midnight and flown a couple of circles around Panem before returning home, where he had spent the rest of the night lying on the barn roof looking up at the stars. After two nights of little to no sleep, even he was tired. Added to that was the fact that the rooms must be, at least somewhat, soundproofed, so the quiet had helped him sleep.

He would have to be more cautious. For the sake of everyone he knew and loved, he needed to keep his special abilities hidden. No one could know that he wasn't just an ordinary kid.

Clark pressed his glasses firmly into place. He couldn't afford to give in to the temptation to use his x-ray or heat vision — or any other of his out-of-the-ordinary talents. He was just a tribute — perhaps stronger and more likely to survive than any of the others, but nothing that could be construed as abnormal.

*****

Everyone else was already present when Clark arrived in the dining room and sat next to Becky. Becky looked up as he sat and smiled at him. Marcius looked at his watch pointedly, tapping his foot impatiently as Clark filled his plate with food and settled down to eat.

"In four days, you'll be in the arena," Marcius reminded the tributes. "You need to use this time to strategize with your mentors."

Clark and Becky looked at Matilda, who was staring blankly at her empty plate, her head occasionally nodding slightly. She'd obviously managed to acquire a dose of morphling somewhere.

Clark and Becky turned to Haver, who looked at Matilda in disgust. Shaking his head, he looked at the two tributes. With a sigh of resignation, he said, "I doubt you're entirely ignorant of what goes on in the arena. After all, the Games are required viewing. You know that the arena could be anything — forest, mountains, desert, swamp, even an abandoned urban area. What you do before the Games begin will help determine whether you'll survive or not. My first lesson would be that food and water may be hard to find, so eat and drink as much as you can between now and the beginning of the Games, but only enough to build up your reserves — not that either of you seem to have a problem with that, but don't overdo. It could slow you down," he said, watching as Becky accepted more hot chocolate and Clark grabbed a few more pieces of bacon from the platter on the table.

"Second lesson, if you have any special skills, don't let the other tributes know about them. Save those for your private session with the Gamemakers. They're the ones who will determine your entry scores — and as you know, your scores will determine how many sponsors you get, and sponsor gifts can mean the difference between life and death. Food, medicine, weapons — sponsors can give you all of those."

"But can't you get those at the Cornucopia, too?" Becky asked.

Haver grimaced and shot back, emphatically, "Stay away from the Cornucopia. That's the _best_ advice I can give you. Unless you're a member of the Career pack, trying to get supplies from the Cornucopia is a sure way to get yourself killed. That's where the bloodbath happens, and sometimes as many as half the tributes die in those first few minutes, fighting over the supplies. When that gong sounds, run like all the demons of hell are after you. Get away from the bloodbath as fast as you can and don't look back. Look for water instead. Remember, don't worry about food. You can live a lot longer without food than you can without water.

"Finally, there are three _rules_ you need to follow. One, don't step off the tribute launch platform until the gong sounds. If you do, the mines will blow you sky high. Two, there can be only one winner, so don't get too attached to _anyone_." Haver looked from Clark to Becky significantly. "And three, no matter how hungry you get, don't eat your fellow tributes."

Clark and Becky looked at each other, matching expressions of disgust on their faces, before Becky gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth, and ran from the table. Clark shoved his plate away. "Has that ever … actually happened?" Clark asked. He supposed he could understand how someone could be tempted, but … the very idea was repulsive!

Haver nodded. "The year Matilda won, the boy from District 6, a tribute named Titus, went savage and started eating those he killed. That didn't play well with Capitol audiences. Violent death is fine, but cannibalism isn't. His kills were censored for that reason, and even the censored versions have seldom been replayed. He died in an avalanche, which may have been arranged by the Gamemakers. The Capitol has certain … standards … for its victors."

Matilda looked up for a moment, her eyes dull. "Yeah, standards. Fu…" Her head dropped onto her plate and she started snoring.

Haver sighed. "She's not supposed to have access to morphling in the Capitol, but obviously someone got it to her anyway — and she found it impossible to resist." He shook his fellow victor gently. "Matilda, you can't stay here. Let me help to you to your room so you can sleep it off."

"Go 'way," she mumbled.

Haver got up. "I'm going to find an Avox to carry her. My back isn't what it used to be."

"I can do it." Clark went around the table and picked Matilda up carefully. She opened her eyes for a moment, mumbled several profanities, and went back to snoring.

Once Clark had put Matilda back on her bed, Haver found a female Avox and instructed her to watch over the sleeping victor. They had no way of knowing how much morphling she had taken, and too much could be deadly.

"She's right, you know," Haver told Clark as they stepped into the hall and shut the door behind them.

Clark frowned, confused. "About what?"

"About your chances. _You_ could _win_ this thing. A few weeks from now, you could be back in District 9 with a house in Victor's Village."

Clark shook his head. He knew what sort of rewards the victors received, but those things were far from his thoughts.

Pointedly, Clark asked, "What about Becky?"

Haver turned to Clark so that he could see his face before he said, "Clark, you know there can only be one winner. It's been thirty-five years since I won, and since then, I've seen more than a dozen girls like Becky enter the arena. None of them lived more than a day or two, if that. Most of them died within minutes." His arm swung out in a gesture of dismissal as he continued, "Small, weak, sickly—Becky doesn't stand a chance." Poking a finger in Clark's chest, he finished, "And if you try to protect her, it could cost you your life."

Clark shook his head, more vehemently this time as an edge entered his tone. "I won't abandon her! I promised her that I would be her ally in the arena, and I will be, for as long as I can."

They turned at the sound of a sniffle behind them. Turning in unison at the sound, they saw Becky standing at the end of the hallway, tears running down her face. She looked uncertainly between Haver and Clark.

Clark was at her side in two steps. Putting a gentle hand on her shoulder, Clark said, "Becky, I meant what I said. I won't abandon you, and I won't hurt you, either." He handed her a tissue from a box on a side table.

"B-but he's right. I might get you killed…" she sobbed out.

"Becky, there are some things that are more important than winning, like being loyal and doing the right thing."

Becky wiped her eyes. "But—" She started coughing, deep wracking coughs, bending forward.

Clark stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do. He watched her fearfully for a moment, but at last she managed to get her cough under control.

"I'm sorry," Becky squeaked. When she finally stood up, she wiped some blood from her lips.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. Not for you, anyway." Clark turned from Becky to glare at Haver.

Haver sighed, about to respond, when Marcius strode into the hallway, looking annoyed.

"Hasn't anyone here heard of keeping an eye on the time? It's 9:59! You're due in the training area in _one minute_! Come on, _now_!"

Haver looked relieved as Marcius led the tributes away. Marcius was still ranting about the importance of keeping track of time. Clark and Becky turned back to look at Haver once. Clark was still angry and Becky even more uncertain. Then they entered the elevator and were gone.

*****

The District 9 tributes were the last to arrive in the training area. The trainer, Atala, looked at Marcius sharply as he delivered his charges to her at two minutes past ten. Twenty of the other twenty-two tributes were already gathered in a semi-circle around her, all except for the pair from District 3, who were arguing loudly in a far corner.

Atala blew her whistle loudly, startling the arguing pair. She shouted so that everyone could hear her. "There will be absolutely no fighting with other tributes before the beginning of the Games! Now, you're wasting time. Get over here and join the others!" She shook her head as the tributes started to join the circle together. "Separately. One of you can go over there —" She pointed to an empty space near the Careers. "— and one of you can come over here." She pointed to the spot between Clark and Becky.

The District 3 boy swaggered over to stand beside the Careers. They looked at him with barely concealed contempt. The pretty brunette stomped over and stood beside Clark, her arms crossed over her chest angrily.

Atala looked around at the assembled tributes. "In two weeks, twenty-three of you will be dead. One of you will be alive. Who that is will be determined in part by what you do here. Don't ignore any of the training stations. You may want to grab a sword and start swinging, but the survival stations are every bit as important. Some of you will die from infection. Others will die from starvation or dehydration. Don't ignore the importance of learning how to build a fire or set up a shelter — exposure can kill you as surely as another tribute. There will be experts in each skill at each training station. I strongly recommend that you try to learn skills you don't already have." She read off a list of the skill stations, then said, "Okay, get to work," dismissing the tributes.

Fascinated by her, Clark watched as the girl from District 3 stalked away, deliberately going in the opposite direction of her district partner. He stood there watching her until Becky tugged on his sleeve, distracting him.

In another demonstration of her growing trust in Clark, she asked, "What should we work on first?"

Bringing himself back to the task at hand, he said, "I don't know. Is there anything you already know how do to?"

Becky looked around thoughtfully. "Um … I know how to make a fire, and how to bank it so it lasts the night. I … I don't think I know anything else."

"Can you start a fire with anything other than a match?"

"No. Can you?"

"Ah … I know how to start a fire with flint and steel, but I've heard there are other ways … like rubbing two sticks together."

"Maybe we should start with that," Becky suggested, "and then we can learn the other stuff."

Clark looked at the fire building station. He wouldn't be able to use his heat vision in the arena unless he was extremely careful, and he hadn't made a fire any other way in a long time.

"Sure," he replied, "we'll start there, and then we'll move on to the other stuff. The more we can learn, the better our chances will be."

*****

By the time the tributes broke for lunch at noon, Clark and Becky had been to both the fire making station and the knot tying station. To Clark's surprise, Becky proved far more adept than him at tying knots — something she attributed to making quick, jerry-rigged repairs to factory machines during the harvest season. He'd been better at making fires without matches. Becky's attempts to start a fire with flint and steel had resulted in badly bruised fingers and skinned knuckles, and she hadn't had the stamina to build a fire with a hand drill. Clark thought that if he was careful while using that device he could help it along with bursts of his heat vision.

The tributes ate breakfast and dinner with their mentors and escort, but lunch was eaten with the rest of the tributes. At lunch, the food was arranged on carts scattered around the dining room, and the tributes served themselves.

The Careers sat together at one table, rowdy and arrogantly assuming themselves to be better than the other tributes. Most of the others sat alone, though the boy from District 3 seated himself at the Career table, ignoring their glares and smirks.

Clark and Becky had just served themselves and sat down at a table a short distance from the Careers. They were discussing which training station to go to next when the District 3 girl set her tray down with a bang at the end of their table. They looked up, startled.

She ignored them, unloading her tray, which contained a few healthy items and a large portion of some chocolate dessert, while staring daggers at her district partner.

Her district partner said something to those he was sitting with, drawing snickers from the Careers. The District 2 boy, probably the most arrogant of them all, turned to look at her. He had dark, wavy hair and a cruel smile on his face. He whistled at her, then called, "Here, Mad Dog!"

She glared back at him with a look as intense as any Clark had used when learning to control his heat vision. Instead of bursting into flames, however, the boy just guffawed and turned back to his lunch.

She shoved most of her lunch aside, concentrating on the dessert. When she realized that Clark and Becky were gawking at her, she snapped, "My name _isn't_ Mad Dog!"

"Um … okay," Clark responded. "What is it?"

She gave him an annoyed look. "It's Lois. Lois Lane." She raised her voice enough to be heard at the Career table. "And his name is Claude — which was his parents' fancy way of calling him a dirt clod!"

At the Career table, Claude just smirked at her. Then he whispered something else to his newfound friends.

Clark cleared his throat. "Erm … well, I'm Clark Kent and this is Becky Rasen. We're from District 9."

Lois tossed her head. "District 9. Oh … yeah … farmers. In District 3, we develop new technology."

"The better to kill people with," Clark replied. "At least farmers produce something everyone needs."

Lois raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that so?"

"Yes … food. If it wasn't for farmers —" He nodded at her meal. "— you wouldn't be eating that."

Lois took another bite of her dessert and said, grudgingly, "Thanks." She gave him a half-smile.

Moments later, the Career table erupted in a fresh round of sniggers. Seven pairs of eyes turned to stare at Lois.

She slammed her fork down and, getting up from her chair, stomped over to Claude. "What did you just say about me?" she demanded.

He ignored her.

The girl from District 2, a blonde, smirked at Lois and said, "He said you were frigid — and he gave us all the details."

Lois had been called this before, so it didn't surprise her, but it did mortify her. She tried to salvage at least some of the shreds of her dignity by saying, "I am _not_ frigid! It's not my fault if _he's_ unimpressive!"

There were more snickers, this time directed at Claude. Lois turned on Claude furiously.

"You lying, cheating, project-stealing son of a —" Lois was drawing back her hand to slap him, but stopped abruptly as a Peacekeeper came towards her. Stepping back, she concluded, "Don't fall for him, girls. He's a thief — and he doesn't have anything to offer in exchange."

With that, she turned and stalked out of the room, leaving every tribute staring after her.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Over the three training days, Clark tried to learn as many skills as possible while helping Becky to learn some survival skills. It wasn't easy.

Becky was too frail to lift a sword, let alone swing it, and she couldn't throw a spear more than a few feet. She couldn't run very far without gasping for breath, and further exertion before she had caught her breath resulted in wracking coughs.

Clark was still determined to protect Becky, but he realized that the odds of keeping her alive were very slim. He would probably have to carry her — not that this posed any difficulty for him — but he also feared that she would be too ill to last long in the harsh environment of the arena. Becky's breathing was growing increasingly labored, even at rest, and he could hear her coughing incessantly at night, even through the semi-soundproofed wall.

Becky was growing more fearful as the brief time allowed for training passed. There was so little she could do, and she couldn't help but think of Haver's words to Clark about her possibly costing him his life. She wanted to do more to help them both survive — and to be able to take care of herself if something happened to Clark.

One thing that Becky was good at was identifying potential sources of food. For a girl who had been hungry all her life, any information that might help her get enough to eat was important. She excelled at the edible plants and insects stations, and did a reasonably good job at setting snares.

For his part, Clark decided to concentrate upon learning to avoid potential attack by the other tributes. Unless there was kryptonite in the arena, he couldn't be injured — and it was sure to attract unwanted attention if a spear bounced off of him or if a knife or sword were damaged when someone tried to stab him with it.

He ran the gauntlet repeatedly, learning to avoid being hit without using excessive speed. He watched the other tributes, too, observing how much they could lift, how fast they could move, and how high they could jump so that he could do the same without arousing suspicion. It was all right to be a little stronger, faster, and to be able to jump a little higher than them — but not by too much.

Clark practiced with the weapons, too. He had no trouble lifting a sword, though swinging it was awkward at first because he had never done so before. He had swung scythes to harvest grain, but that was quite a bit different from swinging a sword with the intent of injuring or killing another human being.

Clark practiced with projectile weapons, too — spears, slingshots, even the bow and arrow, though there had never been a bow and arrows in the arena before. He proved fairly accurate with the spear and did well enough with the slingshot, especially with a discreet puff of super breath to send the stone towards its target. He gave up on the bow and arrow after one attempt, though, when he accidentally damaged the string with his fingernails while examining it, then pulled too hard on the string and snapped it. Fearing that another such incident would bring more than snickers from his fellow tributes, he decided not to try again.

Clark didn't want to kill anyone, but he knew that he might not have a choice. In the first year of the Games, the tributes had tried refusing to fight each other, only to have severed fingers from their loved ones delivered to them in the arena. After that, the bloodletting had gone off without a hitch.

It had originally been Clark's plan to run from the others and hide, avoiding the fighting as much as possible, but now that he had vowed to protect Becky, that might not be possible. He could go a long time without food, water, and rest, but she couldn't. Becky couldn't outrun the other tributes, and she didn't have the strength or stamina to go on for long.

Even if he could keep Becky alive, the fact was there could only be one winner. That was a fact that nagged at Clark's mind, try as he might to forget it. Only one person could survive the Hunger Games. Clark didn't want to die, but he didn't want anyone else to die, either — especially not at his hands, and definitely not Becky or the feisty brunette girl from District 3.

Under other circumstances, some of the tributes might have been friends, but as it was, in two weeks, perhaps less, twenty-three of them would be dead — and no tribute had ever won without killing another.

*****

The training sessions ended at noon on the third day. In the afternoon, each tribute would have fifteen minutes with the Gamemakers to show them what they could do. The scores awarded to them by the Gamemakers after the private sessions would help determine each tribute's chances of living or dying.

At lunch that day — the last time all the tributes would eat together — Clark and Becky sat together as usual. Lois sat at the opposite end of their table, ostensibly ignoring them.

Clark watched as Becky picked at her food, obviously worried about what she would show the Gamemakers.

"Just do your best," Clark told her. "Show them how good you are with knots, and what you know about plants and insects." He lowered his voice so only she could hear. "If we can find water and a little food, we might be able to hide from the others for quite a while. If we wait them out…"

Becky glanced up at him, then went back to staring at her food. "You don't have to hide," she said at last. "You could join the Career pack."

Clark looked at her skeptically. "I … don't see that happening."

"They'd let you in. The District 2 girl likes you."

"Mayson?"

"Yes. She keeps looking at you … the same way you keep looking at Lois."

"Becky!" Clark turned red. He glanced at Lois, even more mortified to realize she had heard Becky's every word.

When Lois saw him looking at her, she tossed her head and looked away. Clark turned to glare at Becky.

"I do not keeping looking at —"

"Yes, you do. You're just like my oldest brother when he likes a girl — he keeps staring at her."

"I don't —"

"You do so."

"Becky …"

"Clark and Lois sitting in a tree …" Becky sing-songed mischievously.

"Shut up, Becky!" Clark's voice was harsher than he intended. He didn't want people laughing about his crush on Lois, a girl who was completely unattainable. Even if they hadn't been from different districts, they were going into the arena in less than two days. By the time the Games were over, at least one of them would be dead. Besides, he couldn't forget that Rachel had promised to wait for him if he made it home.

Hearing a sniffle, Clark looked up to see Becky rubbing her eyes, trying to hide the fact that she was crying.

"I'm sorry, Becky. I didn't mean to yell. Just … please don't embarrass me like that."

Becky ducked her head and shrugged. "It's okay. You can yell if you want."

Clark sighed, realizing what she was doing. "You're trying to drive me away, aren't you?"

Becky looked up at him, her eyes red. "I know I don't have a chance. I don't want you to die because you're trying to help me."

"I promised I would do everything I could to help you, and I will. I wouldn't join the Career pack if they begged me. I won't join any alliance that won't allow you." Clark tipped Becky's chin up until she was looking him in the eyes. "You're like the little sister I never had, and I won't abandon you. All but one of us is going to die in the arena — but if I'm one of those killed, at least I'll go out with a clear conscience, knowing I did everything I could for you."

Becky gulped, then threw her arms around Clark, her body shaking with sobs. He heard the Careers snickering, but ignored them.

Clark looked up when he heard a crash and two shrieks of outrage. Lois was standing between the District 9 tributes and the Careers, effectively blocking the Careers' view of them. She had also apparently dropped a glass of something cold and wet over two of the girls, though whether accidentally or on purpose was impossible to say. Mayson and the District 1 girl, Platinum, were brushing ice off and staring at Lois furiously.

As a Peacekeeper rushed over to prevent an altercation and an Avox came over to clean up the mess, Clark took advantage of the distraction to get Becky out of the room and away from all the staring tributes.

*****

It was four hours after lunch before the District 9 tributes were called in for their private sessions. The tributes were called in order of district number, first boys, then girls, with the other tributes waiting in the dining room for their turns. By the time Clark entered the training room, the Gamemakers had grown bored and had largely lost interest in what the tributes could do.

Despite the Gamemakers obvious boredom, Clark did his best to show that he was a contender. He lifted the hundred-pound training balls and threw them a few feet — just enough to show that he was strong, but not enough to raise suspicion. The balls felt feather-light to him, but he took care not to show how easy they were for him to lift; instead, he pretended that it took some effort for him to pick them up and toss them — about as much effort as any healthy young man accustomed to lifting sacks of grain would use.

Clark also ran the gauntlet, and then threw a few spears at the dummies. When he was finished, the few Gamemakers who were still paying attention nodded politely and then dismissed him.

Not sure what else to do, Clark went back to the District 9 floor of the Training Center. He waited there for Becky, hoping that things had gone well for her, but when she finally joined him, her face was pale and her shirt was speckled with blood.

"Becky!" Clark exclaimed. "What happened? How did things go?"

Becky shook her head, coughing painfully. "I … it was … okay." She wobbled on her feet slightly. Clark reached to steady her. "I … I think I just need to lay down."

"Let me help you…"

"No," Becky told him, straightening and walking as steadily as she could towards her room. "I'm … okay. I'll see … you at … dinner."

Clark let her get a few yards ahead of him, then followed her quietly, making sure she made it to her room. When she was almost there, he glanced around quickly, then lowered his glasses a little and looked through Becky's back at her lungs.

What he saw troubled him. Clark was no expert, but he'd helped butcher enough animals to know the difference between healthy lungs and unhealthy ones — and Becky's were beyond unhealthy. Years of grain dust exposure and an increasingly fast-moving tuberculosis infection — sadly common amongst the factory workers of District 9 — had left the girl's lungs badly damaged. There was fluid in her lungs, too, something that did not surprise Clark, as he had heard slight crackling sounds when she breathed over the past couple of days.

Deep inside, Clark knew that Becky was right — she didn't stand a chance. If another tribute didn't kill her, the rigors of the arena would. Still, he could protect her from the others, and perhaps the end would be a little easier if he was there to take care of her.

*****

That evening, the tributes, victors, and Marcius gathered in the District 9 sitting room to see the tribute scores announced on television. Clark wondered what his score would be, but worried about Becky's — he knew that her session with the Gamemakers hadn't gone well, but she refused to tell him what had happened.

The tributes were scored on a scale of one to twelve, with one being so low that a tribute was considered to have no chance and twelve being so high that no one had ever attained it. Even eleven was high enough to be considered unattainable, so most tributes and viewers considered ten to be as close to a perfect score as it was possible to achieve.

As was usually the case, the Careers had all scored in the eight to ten range. The years they spent training for the Games — and the fact that their meetings with the Gamemakers were within the first two hours of the private sessions, before their audience had a chance to grow bored and drunk — usually assured them of high scores and plentiful sponsors. The other tributes averaged a five, with boys usually scoring higher than girls, though there were exceptions.

Lois had scored an eight, while her district partner, Claude, had only scored a six. The girl from District 6 had scored a seven. The boy from District 11, whose mother had tried so hard to protect him, had scored a three.

It was the District 9 scores that most interested Clark, Becky, and their mentors and escort, though, and it was those scores that had Marcius beaming in approval at Clark and looking at Becky in consternation.

Clark had scored a ten, while Becky had scored a one.

When Clark first saw his score, he was worried. Had he appeared too strong? Had he moved too fast? Had the Gamemakers, in spite of their lack of attention, noticed something unusual about him? To be sure, the boys from Districts 1 and 4 had also scored tens, but they were Careers, and such scores were to be expected. Tributes from the outer districts seldom scored so high, though it wasn't unheard of.

When Becky's score was announced, though, Clark forgot his worries for himself and turned to look at her stricken face.

A score of one was almost a death sentence, and Becky knew it as well as Clark did. Scores weren't the only thing that got sponsors to send life-saving gifts to tributes, but they were important, and someone who scored so low had little chance of making an impression in the arena.

When the broadcast was over, Marcius paced back and forth in front of the television. "A ten is excellent," he told Clark. "You're almost guaranteed sponsors." Marcius looked at Becky, who had drawn her knees up and buried her face in her arms. "A one is … more problematic," he said, "but not impossible, depending upon how we spin it. You could be hiding your talents to make the other tributes overlook you — the high-scoring ones are the ones who need to be eliminated first. Get away from the others and … you may have a chance."

Becky gave Marcius a disbelieving look, then buried her face in her arms again. "It's true," Marcius persisted. "Matilda scored a three, and yet here she is."

Matilda looked at Marcius with contempt. "What worked for me won't work for her, and if it did … well, there are worse things than being dead."

"Matilda!" Haver warned. "Don't start with that —"

"What did you do?" Becky interrupted, looking at Matilda hopefully.

"Nothing that would work for you — and if it did, you'd wish you were dead."

"That's enough!" Haver snapped. "Do you want our tributes dead?"

"It's not like being alive has done anything for either of _us_ — or your long-departed mentor, who was so glad to have someone else escorting the kids to their executions that he stepped in front of an angry bull."

"Get out!" Haver shouted. "Just get out!" He glanced over at Clark and Becky, who were huddled together on the sofa, Clark's arm around Becky protectively. The tributes were staring at their mentors with wide eyes.

Matilda stalked over to a side table laden with bottles of liquor. Grabbing a nearly full one, she mumbled, "I wish I could," so low that only Clark heard her, and stalked from the room.

Everyone was silent for a moment. Finally, Marcius spoke. "The only real way to spin a score of one is to try to convince the potential sponsors that you were trying to hide your talents from the other tributes. It's been done on occasion, and it worked. Of course, none of them had quite so low a score, but … I'll see what I can do."

With that, Marcius left the room, his mind already looking for a way he could make Becky's terribly low score into something sponsors would be willing to spend money on.

After Marcius was gone, Clark asked in a soft tone, "Becky, what happened in there?"

Becky shook her head. "Nothing."

"Becky —" Clark started, but was interrupted by Haver.

"If he's going to try to protect you, you need to tell him why you got such a low score. Were you trying for a low score?"

Becky cringed. "No," she whispered. "I _wanted_ to do _good_."

"Then what happened?" Haver asked. "For Clark's sake, you need to tell him," he added firmly.

Becky was silent for a moment. Finally, she looked up at Clark. In a very quiet voice, she told him, "I tried to show them what I could do with knots and what I learned about plants and bugs, but then I started coughing and I couldn't stop. I got blood on the ropes I was trying to tie knots in, and then I just felt so awful I had to lay down. The Gamemakers had to get an Avox to help me out of the room, and one of them said … said … he said I was a sick child no one in their right mind would sponsor, and he didn't see why they had to waste their time on me."

Both Clark and Haver looked at her sadly. "Well," Haver finally said, "there's still the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. If you can make the audience like you, there may be one or two willing to take a chance on you. I've seen the outfit Belarius is making for you, and while I can't give you details about it, I think it may help you appear to the audience as a likable, innocent young girl that they might want to protect. Matilda will be working with you on the way you present yourself at the interview, and as bad as she can be, there are few victors better at putting on any face the public wants to see. Had she been born in the Capitol, she probably would have become a star in movies or television. As it is …" He sighed. "I want you to listen to her. No matter what kind of awful things she says, she knows what she's doing. She may be able to help you."

"But you want me to die," Becky said quietly.

Haver shook his head. "I don't want either of you to die. I've never wanted any of the tributes I've mentored to die. But since it's inevitable that at least one of you will die, I have to do my best to decide which tribute is more likely to survive — and in this case, it's Clark. But since he's determined to protect you as best he can, I will do my best to help both of you stay alive as long as you can."

"And don't even think about trying to push me away," Clark added. "It won't work."

"Now," Haver said, "it's getting late, and both of you have a long day tomorrow. It won't be as rigorous as the past few days, but you'll still be getting ready for your interviews and devising your final strategies for the Games. I suggest both of you go to your rooms and get some sleep — you probably won't be getting much of it from here on out."

*****

Clark and Becky spent the next day working with their mentors and stylists, preparing for the interviews and devising their final strategies for the Games. Clark already knew what he planned to do in order to escape the bloodbath — get Becky and run. Haver reminded him that Becky might not have the strength to run, but Clark only responded that he would carry her if that were the case.

Clark didn't think he would need to slow down and make it appear that Becky's weight was a burden, either — she couldn't weigh more than sixty pounds, certainly little enough that a male tribute who had scored a ten should have little trouble carrying her. For Clark, who could pick up a tractor with one hand and carry it to where it was needed in order to save fuel, his district partner's weight was nothing.

Clark was curious about what Matilda had done to survive in the arena. He had been five years old during her Games, too young to comprehend much of what was going on. When he was very young, his parents had found ways to distract him from what was happening in the Games, despite viewing being mandatory for everyone. They had devised games, stories, and explanations for what he saw on television that downplayed the Games' horrors. Despite their efforts, the Games had given him nightmares — as they had done to many children — and it wasn't until he was nearly Reaping age himself that he stopped crawling into his parents' bed for comfort during the annual display of violence.

Whatever Matilda had done, he didn't remember it. It was obviously something she didn't want to talk about, but that only served to make Clark that much more curious. After making it clear to Haver that he had already devised his survival strategy, he asked about the other victor. "What did Matilda do to get sponsors?" Clark asked.

Haver hesitated. "You were how old during her Games?"

"Five, but I don't remember —"

"Your parents probably did their best to make sure you didn't see much of it."

"Yes, but — what did she do?"

"I'm not sure I should reveal this to a child."

"I'm eighteen years old and I'm going into the arena tomorrow. I'm not a child."

Haver shook his head, but relented. "No, I suppose you aren't. No one is really a child after entering the Games, and by law, you're old enough to marry … I suppose I can tell you, but don't repeat it to Matilda."

"I won't."

"Matilda performed a striptease for the cameras, among other things which I won't go into. She was an attractive young woman, and her … performance … got her numerous sponsors, including one who sent her the scythe that she used to cut down her last opponents. She used her body to survive — and she's regretted it ever since."

Clark nodded. Such behavior was looked down upon in District 9. Many would have shunned her after she came home.

Haver continued, "It would be a mistake for Becky to try Matilda's strategy. She's too young, too childish-looking. The only people who would be impressed by it are the ones who won't give sponsorship money to a child who tried such a thing for fear of having their perversions found out. Even in the Capitol, some things are frowned upon and, more importantly, illegal.

"Now," Haver continued, "I've probably told you more than I should have. We need to discuss your interview, and how you're going to handle it."

Clark had seen the tribute interviews every year of his life, so he answered, "Shouldn't I just answer Caesar's questions?"

"That's only half of it. What you say, and your attitude, will go a long way toward giving the audience a favorable impression of you. I don't think you'll have much problem — you're naturally friendly, and audiences respond to that. Still, we need to go over the questions you might be asked, just to make sure that there's nothing that might hit a sore spot and get an answer from you that the audience won't like." When Clark frowned, Haver added, "A wrong answer could get you killed — and also Becky."

Clark still frowned, not liking the need to strategize and pretend, but he knew that Haver was right. "All right."

"The first thing to remember," Haver began, "is that not all Capitolites are comfortable with the Games. Some do realize what it means for the kids involved and for their families. They also don't like being reminded of this, so the thing to do is make them feel like you've enjoyed your time in the Capitol. Say good things about the people, the food, the clothing — anything that you might have enjoyed in the slightest. They love their victors, so make them feel like they want you to be one of them. In fact …" Haver dug into his pocket. "… I have a list here of the most commonly asked questions. I'll go over them with you and make sure you have appropriate answers. When we're done, I'll turn you over to Rosaline and your prep team. Appearance is important, so be sure you cooperate and do what they tell you."

*****

That evening, the twenty-four tributes lined up in order of district to walk onto the stage that had been set up in front of the Training Center. Thousands of Capitolites lined the City Circle, with the wealthiest and most influential once again having the best seats. Most of the nearby balconies were taken up by television crews, broadcasting the interviews to all of Panem.

Clark tugged nervously at his tie as he stood behind Becky. He had never worn a suit before, so it felt strange, but the tie was the strangest part. It was bright, with a pattern of stalks of grain in colors never found in nature, but that wasn't what he found so odd about it. Clark didn't see why anyone would want to wear a garment that, if loose, could catch in a piece of machinery and pull a person to their death. Then again, not much about Capitol fashion made any sense to him, and he doubted that most Capitolites had ever even seen a piece of farm equipment, let alone knew how dangerous some of their fashions could be around such machines.

"Stop that!" Rosaline hissed at him, batting his hands away from the tie and straightening it for him. She'd already had to mend it once when he had torn a seam while trying to tie it, leading to her remarking under her breath that his father had done him a disservice by never teaching him how to put on a tie. Clark hadn't commented, though he'd heard her clearly. The only person in District 9 who ever wore a tie was the mayor. For everyone else, they were pointless, expensive, and potentially dangerous.

Clark jammed his hands into his pockets and looked at Becky, who was standing in front of him. He hadn't been the only one to notice how angelic she looked the night of the tribute parade. Belarius and Becky's prep team had dressed her in a white chiffon dress with a cloak that looked like wings when she spread her arms. A golden circlet on her head, gold sandals, and light gold makeup completed the look.

He frowned when he heard her cough. "Becky? Are you okay?"

Becky wiped her mouth, turning to look at Clark. Her face was pale, except for the makeup and two bright pink spots on her cheeks. She was burning up with fever.

"I'm okay," she told Clark quickly.

Belarius came up to her, wiping the lipstick and blood from her hand and applying a fresh coat of pale pink to her mouth. "Don't wipe your mouth," he told Becky. "You'll smear your lipstick."

When Belarius was gone, Clark whispered to Becky, "You don't look fine."

"I get fevers sometimes," Becky assured him. "I'll feel better in the morning."

"In the morning we're going into the arena."

Becky looked down. "I know. If there's any willow trees there, I can make some tea. That always helps me feel better."

Clark nodded, keeping his expression neutral. He knew about using willow bark tea for pain and fever — his parents used it, and they'd given it to him for his headaches following exposure to kryptonite — but he didn't think it would help Becky much. It might ease her fever, but it would do nothing to help the underlying lung disease.

Becky's breathing was labored, something that Clark didn't need his superhearing to pick up on. The District 8 boy standing ahead of Becky turned and looked at her, then inched away, fearing that he might catch whatever she had.

The crowd cheered when the tributes were finally escorted onstage. The tributes' stylists had pulled out all the stops, and the audience, already worked up by Caesar Flickerman, was thrilled at the spectacle.

Caesar welcomed the tributes and told a few jokes, then got down to the business of interviewing them, his purple-dyed hair glistening under the lights as he laughed, commiserated, and put on the appropriate expression for each moment.

Some of the interviews got more reaction from the audience than others. When the District 2 boy swaggered up to the interview chair, a number of girls and women squealed and cheered. He flexed his arms and sat down, accepting the attention as his due.

"Lysander!" Caesar greeted him. "Are you ready for the Games?"

"Of course," the young man replied. "I've been waiting my whole life for this."

"Haven't we all?" Caesar asked. The crowd roared in reply. "Now, Lysander, I understand that you're unusual for a tribute. Not only is your mother a victor —"

"Not so unusual, Caesar," Lysander interrupted. "So was my grandfather and my great-grandmother — in fact, she won the first Hunger Games. Our family has a legacy of winning."

"True, true," Caesar answered, "but your father is a Capitolite — and a powerful one, at that. Now, very few Capitolites have the honor of having their children compete in the Hunger Games, so … what brings you to this moment?"

Lysander looked briefly uncomfortable, but quickly hid it. "I have a legacy to uphold, Caesar, and I couldn't do that from the Capitol. After I'm victor, I'll be joining my father here."

"And who is your father, Lysander?"

"I'll tell you that, Caesar — when I'm victor."

The crowd went wild, while most of Lysander's fellow tributes looked at him in sympathy, realizing what the crowd did not — that his father in the Capitol could have given him a life of ease and safety, but instead had chosen to leave him where he could be pulled into the annual killing spree that the Capitol found so entertaining.

Lois was next. She strode into the spotlight confidently, ignoring the snickers from people in the audience when they saw the skimpy, feathered outfit that her inexperienced stylist had dressed her in. It was covered with blinking lights that were supposed to evoke her home district, but a number of the lights had already gone out and the outfit was shedding feathers.

Lois shook Caesar's hand and sat down, pressing her knees together to keep the dress from revealing anymore than it already did. She gave the crowd a smile that didn't reach her eyes and turned her attention to Caesar.

Instead of speaking to Lois, Caesar first addressed the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, this young lady is another tribute of note. Her father, Dr. Sam Lane, has designed some of the most high-tech prosthetics in use today. If his daughter is anything like him, I'm sure we can expect great things from her!" The audience cheered.

"Now, Lois," Caesar continued, "your father is one of the most high-profile men from your district … aside from District 3's victors, of course. Are you planning on following in his footsteps if you win?"

"If I win, Caesar? Of course I'm going to win!" Lois tossed her head, sending more feathers fluttering to the stage floor. "I'm going to make my father proud."

"Any father would be proud to have a victor for a daughter, and if she follows in his footsteps and continues his life's work, so much the better!"

"I might follow him … or I might make Lois Lane a name to be remembered in its own right!"

By the time Lois's three minutes were up, the crowd was applauding instead of snickering, even as her dress shed the last of its feathers as she went back to her seat.

As the interviews went on, more and more of the tributes turned concerned or calculating eyes to Becky. Her cough had started up again, though she tried to suppress it, and flecks of blood stained the sleeves of her dress. By the time her turn came, she wobbled into the spotlight, sitting heavily in the interview chair and looking at the audience with unfocused eyes.

Caesar looked concerned, but forged ahead with the interview. "Becky," he began, "you're one of our younger tributes. Are you planning upon breaking the record set last year by Finnick Odair and becoming our youngest victor?"

"I …" Becky coughed and tried again. "I …"

She started coughing uncontrollably, deep, wracking coughs that spattered blood across her white dress. Her eyes widened in alarm, but she still couldn't stop coughing.

Caesar gave her a worried look. He could handle tributes who were frightened, who were sullen or hostile, but a sick tribute was another matter entirely. There was nothing his interview skills could do about this.

Clark stared at Becky, watching as her dress turned red. The audience was staring at the stage uncomfortably, the low murmur from the crowd slowly growing louder as Becky continued to cough. As popular as the Hunger Games were with the Capitol, few people wanted to see the tributes suffer before the Games began.

Nonetheless, no one was doing anything. Unable to watch any longer, Clark stood and strode into the spotlight. He gently picked Becky up, ignoring the gasps from the audience and the other tributes. No one had ever interrupted another tribute's interview before, but he didn't care. Becky needed help.

Clark was about to carry Becky off the stage when Marcius came up the steps, blocking his path. "Put her down," he told Clark. "Then go back to your seat. It's your turn to be interviewed."

Clark shook his head, looking at Becky. Her coughing was growing quieter, but she still struggled to breathe. "She needs help."

"And she'll get it … but not until the interviews are over. The longer you delay, the longer it will take." When Clark still hesitated, Marcius continued, "There is a doctor for the tributes. The Capitol doesn't want anyone dying before they get to the arena."

"Why didn't someone get the doctor before?"

"He provides enough care to keep a tribute alive. No more. If she's victor, she'll have the full range of Capitol medicine available. If not, it really doesn't matter. But," Marcius added, "if you walk away with her, she'll get no care at all. Now, _put her back in her seat and get out on the stage!_"

Glaring at Marcius, Clark brought Becky back to her seat, then walked back into the spotlight. The crowd was dead silent.

Caesar was at a loss for words for a moment. This was an unprecedented situation. Finally, he smiled, gesturing to Clark to sit down.

"District loyalty!" Caesar announced. "It's not something you see very often, at least not outside the Career districts. Now, tell me something, Clark. Is this part of your plan to win? After all, if either you or Becky goes home, your whole district will enjoy the glory."

Clark doubted there would be much celebrating in District 9 even if one of them made it home, but he knew better than to say so. Instead, he answered, "Alliances are important, Caesar, and you're right — whichever one of us wins, everyone in District 9 will benefit. Besides, Becky's like a sister to me — and the Kents always take care of their own."

"And that's something all of us can understand," Caesar responded. "Why, I got my own sister out of a dozen scrapes when we were children!"

By the time Clark's interview was over, he had warmed to Caesar somewhat. The television host was good at getting the audience to respond favorably to a tribute — even one who had done something as shocking as Clark had. He could only hope his actions wouldn't bring retribution in the arena … or anywhere else.

*****

"What in the hell were you thinking!?" Haver shouted at Clark the moment they reached the District 9 floor after the interviews. "Interrupting … Becky's … interview!"

"Some interview!" Clark shouted back. "She was sitting there coughing and bleeding all over herself, and no one was doing anything!"

"Someone would have brought her back to her seat when her three minutes were up!"

"How was I supposed to know that?! You never said anything about it!"

"I never thought I'd have to!" Haver took a deep breath, turning back toward the elevator. "Come on." After a few steps, he turned to see that Clark hadn't moved, but was instead standing in the hallway staring at him mutinously. "There are better places to discuss this than the middle of the hallway where anyone can come along." Haver nodded his head in the direction of a microphone half-hidden in a light fixture.

Reluctantly, Clark followed him. They stepped back into the elevator, taking it to the roof. Once there, Haver led Clark toward a display of wind chimes.

"The wind chimes have a nice sound, don't they?" Haver asked.

Clark gave him a strange look before realizing what he was trying to say — as long as the chimes were ringing, their conversation couldn't be overheard.

"Clark," Haver began, "I know you want to protect Becky, but doing things like disrupting the tribute interviews is almost guaranteed to bring retaliation. You're damned lucky that Caesar managed to turn the crowd in your favor. The Gamemakers aren't entirely immune to public opinion — if they like you and Becky enough, you might be spared the arena's nastier traps. No guarantees, but after the stunt you pulled tonight, that's about the best you can hope for."

"I couldn't leave her there like that. She's sick …"

"Yes, she is, and you'd better hope the doctor can fix her up enough that she makes it into the arena."

"Why is the arena so important? What could possibly be entertaining about watching a sick little girl cough her lungs out?"

"It's not about the entertainment, Clark. It's about the power the Capitol has over the districts. If Becky dies before she's in the arena, the Capitol won't cancel the Games or allow just twenty-three tributes. The Gamemakers will delay the Games a few hours while they bring another female tribute from District 9. She'll have no time to eat and build up reserves, no time to train, no training score to attract sponsors, no time to build alliances — in short, no chance. The Capitol won't select a random tribute, either — they'll take one of Becky's sisters. The Rasen family will lose two daughters instead of one, and District 9 may lose three children."

Clark gaped at him in shock. "Has that … ever actually happened?"

"Yes, it has," Haver replied dejectedly. "Two years after I won, one of the male tributes jumped to his death from this rooftop the night before the Games began. The Capitol delayed the Games for a few hours and brought in his younger brother to take his place. The younger boy was not, technically, eligible to be Reaped — he had only turned twelve the day his brother died and had missed the actual Reaping by a few days. It didn't matter, though — the Games needed a twenty-fourth tribute, so he was brought to the arena. He was the first one killed after the gong sounded."

"But Becky's sick. If she dies, it won't be suicide."

"It won't matter. In spite of their propaganda, the Capitol is not known for compassion."

"I know," Clark replied sullenly, thrusting his hands into his pockets and thinking about what Haver had said. Finally, he looked up at his mentor. "Marcius said that if Becky is victor, she'll have access to all the medicine the Capitol has to offer."

"Don't even think about it," Haver said sternly.

"What?" Clark gave him a confused look.

"On the very slim chance that you and Becky are the last two in the arena, don't even consider killing yourself so that she can win. Not unless you want your parents and friends in the cemetery with you."

"I'm not —"

"And even if Becky were to win, I doubt she'd have much time to enjoy it. She's dying, Clark, and there are some things even the best medical care can't fix."

"How would you know?" Clark demanded. "You're not a doctor!"

"I'm from a factory family," Haver told him. "Illnesses like this are very common in the factories. Grain dust, vermin, poor ventilation, malnutrition, blistering heat in the summer and bone-chilling cold in the winter — most factory people aren't too healthy. Add a tuberculosis infection and leave it untreated — a lot of factory workers die from it. By the time someone is struggling for breath and coughing up blood the way Becky is — especially as quickly as she's deteriorating — there's nothing anyone can do except try to keep the sick person comfortable."

Clark couldn't deny that Becky was very sick — not after looking at her lungs — but he wasn't ready to accept that it was hopeless. "But factory workers don't have access to Capitol medicine. Victors do."

"Clark …" Haver sighed, looking at the stubborn young man. "I know you want to help her, to keep her alive. I don't think you'll be able to, but whatever you do, _protect your family and hers_. It won't help anyone if they die with you."

"Yes, but —"

"Don't argue with me, Clark. After thirty-five years as a mentor, I know what I'm talking about. Now, it's getting late. The Games begin tomorrow, so you need to try to get some rest."

Reluctantly, Clark followed Haver back to the elevator. When they reached the District 9 floor, the doctor was just leaving Becky's room.

Haver hurried up to him, with Clark following close behind.

"How is she doing?" Haver asked.

The doctor shrugged. "She should make it through the night. Beyond that, it's hard to say. There wasn't much I could do for her — oxygen and an injection to make her sleep. If these outer district parents would bother taking care of their children, they wouldn't have problems like this."

Clark glared angrily at the doctor. "People do the best they can for their children! It isn't their fault that they're starving or that only people in the Capitol get life-saving medicine!"

"Stop. Just stop. Don't say another word," Haver warned Clark. "You may have had an exhausting few days, and it goes without saying that you're probably worried about tomorrow. That doesn't excuse such a rude outburst." He smiled apologetically at the doctor. "Kids … who can tell where they come up with these things?"

The doctor nodded knowingly. "I have two teenagers at home. I can never predict what strange thing they're going to do next."

"Then how can you —" Clark's words were quickly cut off.

"Clark, that's enough!" Haver's tone brooked no argument. "You've had a long week, and I think the best thing for you now is to get some rest." He pointed down the corridor toward Clark's bedroom.

Clark crossed him arms over his chest, glaring at the two men and refusing to budge. He knew that Haver was trying to help him, to keep him from making things any worse than he already had, but at the moment he was too angry to care.

It wasn't until Clark felt the heat reflecting off his glasses that he realized what he was doing. He closed his eyes quickly, shutting off the beams of heat.

Clark turned on his heel and walked down the hall toward his room. It had been years since he'd lost control of his heat vision, but now he'd come close to setting both his mentor and the tribute doctor on fire.

_Calm down_, he told himself. _You can't afford to lose your temper. Too many lives are at stake_.

When Clark reached his bedroom, though, he realized how far from calm he was. The doorknob came off in his hand. Clark looked at it in consternation.

"Um … sorry," he told Haver. "It's been loose since we got here a few days ago …"

"I'll get someone to fix it," Haver replied. "You go get some rest."

Clark nodded, going inside the room and remembering to close the door gently. He paced restlessly for a few minutes. Haver's advice to rest was sound, but Clark knew that he wouldn't be able to settle down anytime soon.

Moving quickly, Clark changed out of his interview suit and into a pair of comfortable jeans and a shirt. Then he took off his glasses and looked through the wall between his room and Becky's, wanting to assure himself that she was all right.

Becky was sleeping soundly, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. Her breathing was still labored, but not as bad as it had been earlier.

After watching her for a couple of minutes, Clark put his glasses back on and went to listen at the door. Haver and the doctor were gone, but someone was on the other side of the door, fixing the doorknob. Clark used his X-ray vision to peek through the door, seeing a tired-looking Avox on the other side. He immediately felt guilty about giving the overworked servants more to do.

Carefully, Clark pulled the door open. The servant looked up in surprise, dropping the screwdriver he was using. Clark picked it up and held out his hand for the remaining screws. Fixing doorknobs was something he'd done a lot of when he was learning to control his strength.

The Avox gave them to him, watching as the young tribute quickly repaired the doorknob. When Clark was done, he handed the screwdriver back to the servant, looking at him a bit sheepishly.

"Sorry," Clark told him quietly. "I … guess I should have mentioned that it was loose a few days ago."

The servant nodded, picking up his tool kit. He hurried down the hall. Clark watched him go, then turned in the direction of the elevator.

A few minutes later, Clark stepped onto the roof of the Training Center. He could clearly hear the sound of the Capitolites on the street thirteen stories below, celebrating the fact that the Hunger Games would begin tomorrow.

Clark did his best to tune them out. He didn't want to think about the safe, privileged people of the Capitol merrily anticipating the slaughter of children that would begin in the morning.

Clark tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. The stars were harder to see amidst the glittering lights of the Capitol than in the nighttime darkness of District 9, but with his telescopic vision, Clark could still make them out.

They seemed to beckon to him.

It would be easy to simply launch himself into the air, disappearing before anyone knew what had happened. He could fly away from the Capitol, free and safe from the horrors of the Games. He couldn't return to District 9, but much of Panem was wilderness. He could go there and be safe.

It was Haver's words from earlier that stopped him. Although no one would know how Clark had disappeared, the Capitol would still retaliate. The Games needed twenty-four tributes, and although Clark had no brothers who could be forced into the arena, he did have friends, and he had a strong suspicion that if he disappeared, Pete Ross would find himself in the arena tomorrow.

Pete had felt guilty about not volunteering to take Clark's place in the Hunger Games, but Clark knew that Pete had also been relieved not to be chosen. He was safe from the Reaping now, looking forward to a future with Lana — so long as Clark did the right thing and faced the arena.

Clark also could not forget that if he fled, there would be no one to protect Becky — or, if the worst happened and she didn't live long enough to make it into the arena — her sister. Whatever happened, Clark felt that he had an obligation to try to protect his district partner, and he would, no matter how tempting it was to simply save himself.

He walked slowly towards the short wall on the edge of the roof. On the street below, revelers moved past the building, their voices far clearer to Clark than to anyone else, though their excitement would have been noticeable anyway.

Clark turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. He smiled a little when he saw Lois's slender form coming across the rooftop.

Lois didn't come too close, but she also didn't flee when she saw him looking at her. She walked up to the wall, staying a few yards away from Clark, and looked down at the party-goers, her eyes narrowing at the sight.

They stood in silence for a few minutes before a cool breeze set the wind chimes to jingling. With the sound of their voices covered, Clark finally risked speaking to her.

"It's awful, isn't it? All those people celebrating the fact that tomorrow we'll be tearing each other apart."

Lois glanced up at him. "Speak for yourself. No one's going to tear me apart."

In spite of her words, there was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Clark heard it and looked at her, an idea coming to him.

"Do you have any allies?" he asked. He thought of the way she had blocked the Careers' view of Becky the day before. Lois might make a valuable ally in the arena.

"No," Lois replied, "and I don't need any, either." She leaned forward over the wall, looking at the people below. "I can take care of myself."

Clark looked down at the Capitolites in the street, trying to think of a way to convince Lois to join Becky and him in an alliance. Before he could come up with an argument, though, he heard a sudden buzzing sound, followed by Lois's yelp of surprise. She was rubbing her hand when he looked at her.

"There's a force field down there," he told her unnecessarily. "It's to keep tributes from jumping."

Clark had been aware of the force field for a while. Two weeks before the Reaping, he had flown over the Capitol in the wee hours of the morning. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and since no one was on the street or on the rooftop of the Training Center, he had flown down for a closer look — at which point he had run into the force field and bounced quite a distance back into the sky. His encounter with the force field had also set off an alarm, bringing Peacekeepers rushing to the roof to see what had happened. Clark had watched from inside a cloud as they milled around in confusion, unable to figure out what had set the alarm off. He'd laughed a little at their puzzlement, but after that he had stayed away from the Capitol.

He'd been confused at the presence of the force field then, but now, after Haver's story about the boy who had jumped from the roof, he understood why it was there. It was about eighteen inches below the top of the wall — just far enough down that any tribute desperate enough to jump would hit it and be bounced back into the roof, possibly injuring themselves in the process.

Clark tensed, waiting for the alarm to go off, but apparently Lois's brief brush against the force field hadn't been enough to set it off. He couldn't see it — it was invisible even to him — but he could hear the very faint buzz it made if he listened closely.

"Nice of them to worry about us," Lois said sarcastically, glaring down at the people below.

Clark was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, "Lois, what I said about allies —"

"Is that part of your survival strategy, Farmboy? Find allies and wait for their guard to be down before you kill them?"

"No. I don't plan to kill anyone … not if I can avoid it."

Lois looked at Clark disbelievingly. "In the Hunger Games, you do whatever you have to do to survive. I'm not going to join any alliance. I know what I'm going to do to stay alive, and it doesn't include letting anyone get close enough to stab me in the back."

With that, Lois turned on her heel and stalked back towards the elevator, leaving Clark staring after her.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Clark was already awake when Marcius knocked on his door at dawn. He had slept only fitfully the night before, awakening often and peering through the wall at Becky to see how she was doing. When he had awakened to find himself floating slightly in spite of his efforts to secure himself, he had given up on sleeping and spent the rest of the night staring out the window. Clark shouted, "Come in!"

"Eager for the Games to begin, I see!" Marcius exclaimed when he walked in, with Rosaline following close behind him. Clark gave him a look that would have warned off most people, but Marcius was oblivious. "Rosaline has your tribute uniform. Once you're dressed, she'll escort you to the hovercraft that will take you to the arena."

"How's Becky?" Clark asked abruptly, cutting him off. He knew how Becky was doing — he'd checked on her just before Marcius had come in, and with his superhearing he could hear the faint crackling sound of her breathing, but he was in no mood for Marcius' enthusiastic chatter about the Hunger Games.

Marcius gave Clark an irritated look. "She's fine, to my knowledge," he responded. "Someone would have said something if she wasn't."

Since no one besides Clark had checked on Becky since the doctor had left, Clark doubted this to be true unless she was being monitored remotely. Becky didn't look or sound fine to him, but she was still alive, and as sick as she was, that was almost a miracle.

Marcius glanced at his watch. "Hurry and get ready," he told Clark. "The hovercraft leaves in an hour. You'll be on it whether you're ready or not." With that, he left the room and went to wake Becky.

Rosaline gave Clark a sympathetic look. "He's a bit much to deal with at this hour, isn't he?"

"He's a bit much to deal with at any hour," Clark mumbled sourly. He took the clothes and boots from Rosaline.

"You should have time to shower if you hurry," she told him. "I'll knock if you're running out of time."

Clark showered quickly, then stood in front of the mirror, using his heat vision to shave. It wouldn't be possible to do so in the arena. When he was done, he dressed more slowly, examining the clothes to see if they might present some clue about the arena.

The tribute uniform consisted of sturdy dark brown pants and an equally sturdy dark green shirt with his district number on the back. The clothes were lightweight but encompassing. _Someplace fairly warm,_ Clark thought, _but probably not a desert. Maybe someplace with a forest?_ He couldn't be sure. Most years, the tribute uniforms suited the environment of the arena — but not always. Some years the Gamemakers deliberately gave the tributes inappropriate clothing, then watched them freeze or swelter.

Clark quickly put on the boots, which were made of sturdy leather, with soles designed for running, and exited the bathroom to find Rosaline waiting for him.

She looked at him, nodding approvingly. Reaching into her pocket, Rosaline pulled out the framed photograph of the Kents and handed it to Clark. "The Gamemakers approved your token," she said, "so you get to take it into the arena."

The picture had been taken from Clark when he had arrived at the Remake Center. Glad to have it back, he put it in his pocket, asking, "Why do the Gamemakers have to approve tokens?"

"It's to make sure your token doesn't give you an unfair advantage in the arena. If you can use your token as a weapon, you can't take it in with you. They did replace the glass in the frame with plastic. Speaking of which…" Rosaline held out her hand. "I'm going to have to take your glasses."

"What? Why?" Clark had seen tributes with glasses in the arena before. Why did Rosaline need to take his glasses from him? Had someone noticed something strange about them — like the fact that they didn't correct his eyesight?

"The Gamemakers consider them an unfair advantage because broken glass can be used as a weapon. They're also a liability to you — if they break, you'll be left blind, or worse, with a piece of glass in your eye." Rosaline pulled out a glasses case and removed a pair of almost identical glasses. "These are shatterproof plastic — much safer in the arena. If you win, you'll get your old pair back."

Reluctantly, Clark handed Rosaline his familiar glasses. She put them in the case and handed him the plastic ones. He put them on, blinking a little as he looked through them.

As with the ones he'd brought from home, the glasses did nothing for his vision. He suspected that they would melt if he focused his heat vision on the lenses, though he didn't dare test that theory. Clark quickly discovered that the plastic didn't block his x-ray vision like the leaded glass of his regular glasses did, either, although that could be a distinct advantage in the arena. In truth, the plastic glasses were useless except for their familiar and therefore comforting presence on his face.

"Ready?" Rosaline asked.

Clark shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess." He kept his face expressionless as she opened the door for him, unwilling to admit the fear he felt — fear that he wouldn't be able to protect Becky, fear that he would be forced to harm someone else, fear that his secret would be discovered — even fear for his own life. Fear wasn't an emotion Clark felt often — he didn't need to. Very little could harm him, but the prospect of the arena filled him with trepidation.

As Clark and Rosaline started down the hallway, Becky stumbled out of her room, followed by Belarius. Becky looked around groggily, not quite awake. Then she started coughing again.

Clark hurried to her side. "Becky!"

Becky looked up at him, trying to stop coughing. After a moment, she managed to get her cough under control and wiped the blood from her mouth. She took a step toward Clark, but nearly fell as her head spun dizzily and her legs started to buckle under her.

Clark caught her and held her up until she managed to steady herself. He looked at her sorrowfully, knowing that Haver was right — Becky was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do to save her, not even him.

He felt a surge of anger at the Capitol. Becky needed to be at home, surrounded by her loved ones. Instead, she was being sent into the arena, where her death, whether from lung disease or from violence, would serve as entertainment for the bored, privileged Capitolites. She would never see her family again, and the only person who would be at her side at the end was a boy she had known all of her life, but had only recently known to be a friend.

Clark offered Becky his arm. "Come on," he told her softly. "You can lean on me."

Becky nodded, her body convulsing in another coughing fit. When it ended, she allowed Clark to help her down the hallway. He supported her with an arm across her back and her arm in his hand. The stylists followed close behind them.

Just before they reached the elevator, Marcius, Haver, and Matilda came out of the sitting room. Quietly, they approached the tributes.

"It's almost time," Marcius said, less animated now than he had been earlier. "We'll be in the Capitol, working to get sponsors for you. Remember your mentors' advice, and … may the odds be ever in your favor."

Clark nodded his head tersely in acknowledgment, while Becky started coughing again. Haver looked from Becky to Clark sympathetically, while Matilda just shook her head, looking sad.

As the tributes stepped into the elevator, Haver told them, "Good luck. We'll do our best to get you sponsors." He and Matilda put their right hands over their hearts and bowed their heads. Clark and Becky did the same in response as the elevator doors closed.

The tributes and stylists were silent on the short trip to the roof, where the hovercraft would launch from. When the elevator reached the roof, the stylists stepped out first, heading towards their section of the craft that would transport them to the catacombs from which the tributes would enter the arena.

Most of the tributes were already on the roof, milling around and trying to avoid each other while a group of Peacekeepers kept an eye on them. Clark and Becky stepped from the elevator and moved slowly towards the other tributes.

Two minutes later, the last of the tributes arrived on the roof. The pair from District 1, Platinum and Lumen, stepped out of the elevator and walked confidently over to their fellow Career tributes.

The moment the elevator doors opened, Clark knew that something was wrong. A dull pain moved through his body and his head started to ache. When the District 1 tributes came closer, the pain increased and he stumbled, falling to his knees and pulling Becky down with him.

"Clark! What's wrong?" Becky asked, looking at him fearfully.

"Nothing," he lied. "I just tripped."

The Careers had seen them fall and were laughing at them. When Platinum turned and pointed at them, saying something that, to his alarm, Clark couldn't hear, he saw what the problem was.

Platinum had a glowing green pendant suspended by a chain around her neck. The piece of Kryptonite wasn't large, but it was enough to harm Clark. A tribute's token wasn't supposed to give them an unfair advantage in the arena, but no one except Clark and his parents knew how it affected him. As far as the Gamemakers were concerned, Platinum's token was just a harmless piece of jewelry.

Becky managed to get to her feet first and stood between the Careers and Clark as he struggled to get up. Laughing harder at Becky's attempt to protect Clark, the Careers started taunting her.

"Isn't that cute? She's standing up for her boyfriend!"

"I thought he was her brother."

"Maybe he's both!"

"Which one should we kill first?"

Clark finally managed to get to his feet. He glared at the Careers as he said weakly, "Don't listen to them. They're idiots."

Becky started coughing, making the Careers back off as drops of blood flew in their direction. She leaned against Clark, though he was still having trouble staying on his own feet.

Together, the District 9 tributes moved to the shelter of a large potted plant and sat down heavily on a bench beside it. Clark clutched his aching head. The weakness had lessened slightly when Platinum had moved away from him, and was easing a little more now that they were sheltered somewhat from the Kryptonite, but his head still hurt, his body still ached, and he felt a little nauseous. A quick check of his x-ray vision confirmed that his strange abilities had disappeared, leaving him as vulnerable as anyone else.

By the time Becky's cough eased, the front of her shirt was stained with blood. They looked at each other uneasily — Clark worried about how much blood Becky was losing and how painful her breathing sounded, and Becky worried because suddenly Clark was not feeling well.

"Clark," Becky whispered, "what … what's wrong?"

Clark shook his head. "I … I just have a headache."

Becky touched his face. "It's more than that. You have a fever, too."

Clark shook his head again, rubbing his temples. "It's nothing."

Becky gave him a frightened look. "Do … do … you think … you … caught it from … me?" Another coughing fit convulsed her fragile body.

Clark patted her arm. "No," he assured her. "This has nothing to do with you. I just … don't feel well." He couldn't tell her what the problem actually was, and even if he could, there was nothing she could do about it. If Becky tried to take the pendant from Platinum, the larger, healthier Career girl would hurt her badly, and then both Becky and Platinum would be punished for fighting before the Games began — and probably Clark, too, for instigating it. And then his secret would be out, endangering his family and friends.

One of the Peacekeepers raised a bullhorn. "Would all tributes please report to the hovercraft? Departure is in five minutes."

Becky froze at the announcement, looking at Clark with wide, frightened eyes. He shook his head. "It's time," he told her, pushing himself to his feet and offering her his arm. Becky took it, and the two of them moved toward the line to board the hovercraft, leaning against each other slightly.

The Careers were at the front of the line, eager to board. Clark was glad to see that Platinum was at the very head of the line. He guided Becky to the back of the line, putting as much distance between himself and the piece of Kryptonite as he could.

One tribute tried to break away from the others, running back toward the elevator, only to find it blocked by a force field. A Peacekeeper grabbed the terrified District 8 boy and pushed him back in the direction of the hovercraft.

As each tribute boarded the hovercraft, they were ordered to hold onto the handrail, where an electric current froze them in place while a technician injected a tracker into their left forearm.

When Clark saw this, he realized that Platinum's Kryptonite token might be a blessing in disguise. He'd never realized that trackers were used to show where tributes were; he'd always thought that the cameras kept track of them. Under ordinary circumstances, the technician would have been unable to inject the tracker into his arm and would probably have destroyed the needle trying to do so, but because of his exposure to Kryptonite, there would be no problem inserting the tracker under his skin.

Inside the hovercraft, there was no way for Clark to get away from Platinum. He could only be grateful that she was at the other end of the compartment, putting some distance between him and the poisonous stone.

Clark sank into the seat closest to the door of the hovercraft, his legs shaking. Becky sat beside him, looking at him with worry.

After the door to the hovercraft was closed, the Peacekeeper who was in charge of the tributes until they reached the arena made an announcement.

"The flight to the catacombs beneath the arena will take about forty-five minutes. This hovercraft will remain nearby. Most of you will be returned to the Capitol in it before being shipped home to your families for burial."

Most of the tributes shuddered at the thought. The boy who had tried to run gave a frightened sob before clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

Ignoring the tributes' reactions, the Peacekeeper went on. "The victor will be returned to the Capitol in a fully-equipped medical hovercraft. Once that person has recovered from their Game, they will receive adulation and rewards beyond what most of you could ever imagine."

The Careers grinned at each other, but with less enthusiasm than before, all of them realizing how soon they would probably be dead.

The Peacekeeper took his seat. The windows of the hovercraft darkened as it took off so the tributes couldn't see where they were going. Though there was little chance of anyone attempting to rescue them, the Gamemakers didn't want to take any chances that a tribute might be able to tell the viewers where the arena was located.

It was unpleasantly warm inside the hovercraft — either the temperature controls were malfunctioning or the tributes were being deliberately tortured. In addition, the hovercraft encountered turbulence outside the Capitol. Soon, many of the tributes were reaching for airsickness bags, and even the Peacekeeper looked uncomfortable, in spite of the anti-motion sickness medicine given to Capitol staff before a hovercraft flight.

Clark sat with his eyes closed, his head cradled in his hands. He knew it made him look weak, but at the moment, he was in too much pain to care. The Kryptonite was close enough to make him sick, but not close enough to render him unconscious — at least not quickly, though occasional waves of lightheadedness told him that passing out eventually was a distinct possibility.

Beside him, Becky's frail body convulsed from coughing fits again and again. After each coughing fit, her breathing grew shallower and more labored. When Clark opened his eyes to look at her, her hands were covered with blood and her shirt was heavily stained with it. Becky stared back at him, terrified for both of them.

Ordinarily, the heat and the turbulence wouldn't have bothered Clark in the slightest, but now they added to the pain and nausea from his Kryptonite exposure. Clark didn't realize that he'd turned pale and pressed a hand over his mouth until Becky shook his arm and handed him an airsickness bag.

So many of the tributes were suffering from motion sickness that no one other than Becky noticed Clark's distress. No one laughed or looked at him curiously when he heaved into the bag a moment later, nor did they notice when he laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness that threatened to turn into unconsciousness.

Clark didn't know how he made it through the flight, but at last the hovercraft landed. He struggled to open his eyes as the door opened and the tributes exited the stuffy, overheated compartment, grateful to be off the hovercraft even if it did bring them one step closer to the arena.

Clark and Becky were the last to leave the hovercraft. Though Clark was feeling a little better now that Platinum and her token had disappeared into the catacombs, he was still having trouble keeping his eyes open, and he nearly fell when he finally got out of his seat.

The Peacekeeper grabbed Clark's arm irritably, keeping him from falling. "Get moving, Nine!"

"His name's Clark —" Becky interrupted, but Clark shook his head at her slightly, warning her not to antagonize the Peacekeeper. Becky closed her mouth, putting an arm around Clark and leaning against him, though neither was certain how much of that was to steady herself and how much was to steady him.

They walked towards the tunnels marked with nines, prodded along by the Peacekeeper and accompanied by their stylists, who had been waiting for them inside the underground rooms below where the hovercraft had stopped.

"Becky," Clark said quietly. He leaned against the wall beside the tunnel labeled 'District 9 Male.' Becky moved closer. "When the gong sounds, go around the outside of the circle of tribute launch platforms. Avoid the cornucopia and come to me as fast as you can. Okay?"

Becky gave him a worried look. "Are … are you going to be … okay?"

Clark moved away from the wall, relieved to find that he could stand steadily. "I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about."

Becky looked down. "I … maybe I'll … I'll …" She gasped for breath and tried again. "Maybe I'll … feel better outside … in the … arena."

Clark squeezed her shoulder gently. "Maybe you will." He doubted it, but he wouldn't take that bit of hope from her.

"We need to get going if you want to have time for breakfast before the Games start," Rosaline said, looking at the clock.

Food was the last thing Clark wanted, but he knew that Becky needed to eat. Glancing at the clock, he told Becky, "I'll see you in half an hour." With one last glance at his district partner, Clark let Rosaline escort him down the winding, branching tunnel to the room from which he would enter the arena.

Clark looked around. Platters of food were set out on the table in the Launch Room — or, as most people in the districts called it, the Stockyard, since it was the room from which a tribute was sent to the slaughter. The delicacies set out on the table only served to heighten that impression — that the tributes were being fattened up before being killed, or were condemned prisoners being given their last meals.

There was also a couch where the tribute and stylist could sit and wait for the moment when the tribute would enter the launch tube to be lifted into the arena. The prominent feature of the room by far was the launch tube itself. Once inside, the tribute would slowly be lifted into the arena, fifty to a hundred feet above the room. In the arena, the platform would lock in place and quickly seal to keep the tribute inside the arena. A force field inside the tube would be activated as soon as the platform was locked in place, thwarting any attempts by tributes to escape by getting back into the Launch Room.

Clark sat down on the couch, as far from the table as he could get. Though he was feeling a little stronger, his head still pounded dully and he still felt queasy.

Rosaline was at the table, serving herself breakfast. She looked at Clark in concern. "Aren't you going to eat?"

Clark shook his head and sullenly replied, "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something, or at least have some water. There's no telling when you'll have another chance."

"No, thanks," he said sharply.

Rosaline set her plate down and looked at Clark critically. Shaking her head, she told him, "This must be the worst case of motion sickness I've ever seen."

Clark shrugged. It was as good an excuse as any. In truth, turbulence didn't ordinarily bother him. He'd never experienced it before developing the ability to fly a few months before, and then he had found that he could fly straight through it if he chose, or allow it to carry him along in order to satisfy his curiosity about where it would take him. Heat didn't usually bother him, either — he could pick up hot coals without injury or even the slightest pain, and could work all day in the heat of summer without any worse effect than needing a little extra water.

Clark didn't know why Kryptonite affected him the way it did, and he couldn't have revealed the reason for his illness to Rosaline even if he had known. He could only be grateful that there was a plausible excuse for his not feeling well, one that wouldn't bring any uncomfortable questions.

He looked up in surprise when Rosaline sat down next to him, handing him a glass of some cold beverage and a slice of plain toast. "It's ginger ale," she told Clark when he looked at her inquiringly. "It'll help settle your stomach."

Clark sipped the drink slowly, finding that it did help a little, and nibbled cautiously at the toast. He knew that he would be ravenously hungry later, assuming he lived that long — he always was after recovering from Kryptonite exposure. Now, though, even this small amount of bread was almost more than his stomach could handle.

It seemed to take an eternity, and yet was not long, before the time came for Clark to enter the arena. A female voice announced that it was time to prepare for launch. Stomach clenching with dread, Clark got up, slowly approached, and then stepped onto the metal launch plate.

Rosaline followed him and handed him a lightweight green jacket. Clark put it on, zipping it up to his chin. He looked up into the launch tube, swallowing hard, his heart pounding so hard he half-feared it would burst from his chest.

Rosaline stepped back as the glass cylinder descended over Clark. "May the odds be ever in your favor," she told him. He nodded and looked up as the launch plate began to rise.

_If the odds are in my favor,_ Clark reflected as darkness surrounded him during the fifteen seconds it took for the launch plate to reach the surface, _Becky will be close and Platinum will be far, far away._

The moment he arrived in the arena, Clark knew that the odds weren't in his favor. Another wave of pain went through his body and his headache turned from a dull pain to an excruciating one. Platinum stood on the launch plate to the right of his, her glowing pendant displayed against her jacket. Clark's legs almost buckled, but he managed to brace himself in time, knowing that if he fell now he would set off the mines.

For a moment, Clark could only stare at the piece of Kryptonite — something that Platinum noticed, though she didn't know the reason for his fascination. She also noticed his pallor and the way he swayed on his feet and moved his hands to clutch his head. A predatory smile crossed her face.

Dimly, Clark heard the voice of the announcer, Claudius Templesmith. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin!"

With effort, Clark tore his gaze away from the Kryptonite, glancing first at the clock ticking down the seconds until the tributes could leave their launch plates, then looking for Becky. She was about halfway around the semi-circle of tributes from him. In one hand, she held her token, the small wooden ball her brother had given her so she would win. Her other hand clutched her throat. Her face was panicked as her eyes darted from tribute to tribute, at last landing on Clark in relief.

Becky's face held a bluish tint as she suddenly bent forward, her eyes and mouth wide as she tried desperately to breathe. A few seconds later, the ball fell from her hand, bouncing off the launch plate and landing on the ground.

A cannon sounded, signaling the death of a tribute, but no one heard it over the deafening explosion of the mines going off.

The tributes next to Becky screamed and cursed as they were spattered with blood and pelted with debris. Everyone stared in shock at the spot where Becky had been — _had_ been, because she was no longer standing there. What remained of her lay across the launch plate and the ground around it. Even the Careers were horrified at the sight.

His ears ringing from the blast, Clark stared at the spot, shock and guilt coursing through him. He'd promised Becky he would protect her — but in one horrifying moment, she was gone, and there was nothing he could have done to prevent her death.

Clark felt a fresh wave of nausea, though whether it was from the Kryptonite or from Becky's gruesome fate, he wasn't sure. He clamped a hand over his mouth, willing himself not to throw up, fearing that if he did he would set off the mines around his own launch platform. He fixed his gaze on the clock, watching the seconds count down until he could safely step off the platform.

When the gong sounded, few of the tributes heard it. Still deafened by the explosion, they slowly realized that the Games had begun and began to run towards the cornucopia or away from it, depending upon their survival strategy.

Clark staggered backwards off the launch plate as soon as the countdown ended, taking two steps before falling. He saw Platinum run toward a set of knives and, fueled by a fear-induced burst of adrenaline, got to his feet and pushed himself up the slope with surprising speed, heading for the shelter of a large boulder, each step taking him farther from the Kryptonite.

When he got there, he fell to his knees, his stomach rebelling. Shaking violently, he lost what little he had eaten earlier, then tried to get up, knowing that he wasn't yet safe.

Clark could hear the screams and sounds of fighting from the cornucopia about two hundred feet away. Bracing himself against the rock, he started to struggle to his feet.

There was the sudden thud of a body falling atop the boulder. Looking up, Clark saw the District 11 boy lying atop the rock, his dead body sliding from it, a spear in his back.

Clark pushed himself away from the rock and began to stumble uphill again, hoping that he could make it into the thick brush, where he might be able to hide until the worst effects of the Kryptonite wore off. _And if I do die,_ he thought grimly, _I don't want it to happen in a pool of my own vomit. I'd like a little more dignity than that._

He'd made it about twenty feet when he stumbled over a piece of concrete and metal hidden in the tall grass — the remains of what had been a picnic table centuries before. Before Clark had a chance to get back to his feet, someone else tripped over him, landing hard and knocking the wind out of both of them. A spear flew over their heads, right where the second person would have been had they not fallen.

Both tributes tried to scramble to their feet, but only succeeded in knocking each other over again. Terrified, they looked at each other, only then recognizing one another.

"Lois!" Clark gasped, finally succeeding at disentangling himself from her. He ducked as she scrambled for the spear that had barely missed her, but instead of trying to kill him, Lois turned and started up the hill away from him.

Clark had just gotten to his feet when another sharp wave of pain told him that the piece of Kryptonite was near — and with it, Platinum. Seconds later, she tackled him from behind, knocking him down again, her knife flashing in the sunlight as she yanked his head back and plunged the weapon towards his throat.

Clark was so weakened from the near proximity of the Kryptonite pendant that it took all of his strength to ward off the blow. The knife scored a bloody track along his arm. It was all that he could do to twist out from under her.

Suddenly, he couldn't feel Platinum's weight on him. Had he succeeded in throwing her off, or was she preparing for another attempt? His vision was clouding as the Kryptonite worked its deadly poison into his system. He had to get away from it if he was to survive. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, but he was so disoriented as a result of the Kryptonite exposure that he couldn't see what was happening. From the sounds, there was a fight going on nearby. He could only assume that two other tributes were fighting over the privilege of killing him. He needed to get away from the Kryptonite, and that meant he had to get away from that struggle. He turned over on his stomach and started to crawl away, uphill. As the sounds of the struggle continued they were in turn moving downhill, away from him. With each passing second the distance increased, the pain decreased, and as the pain decreased, his strength increased so that he could move faster.

His vision finally started to clear and he could see Platinum and Lois engaged in battle.

Lois was still in possession of the spear that she had picked up. Rather than using it as a spear, she was using it like a quarter staff, a la Robin Hood and Little John, batting away Platinum's attempts to rip her open with the knife she still wielded.

As long as Lois was able to keep Platinum at some distance this use of the weapon worked.

While he watched, Lois knocked the knife out of Platinum's hand with the shaft of the spear. They both scrambled for the weapon. They were kicking, scratching, punching, and pulling each other's hair, each seeking an advantage in getting the knife. Lois felt that a couple of her blows were effective because they elicited screams of pain from Platinum. She didn't escape unscathed, because Platinum managed to punch Lois in the side of her face, causing her a lot of pain, but knowing what was at stake, she continued to fight.

Lois finally got a hand on the knife. Platinum bit her hand to get her to release it and succeeded in doing so. Lois rolled away to put some distance between herself and Platinum when she saw that her opponent would succeed in acquiring the weapon again. She dove for and retrieved her spear.

They circled warily for a time. Unexpectedly, Platinum charged Lois. Lois brought up her left hand to grab Platinum's knife hand as Platinum grabbed Lois' spear hand, each attempting to control the other's weapon. They were pushing and shoving each other around in a deadly dance. The first one to weaken or lose control of the weapon would die. Suddenly, Platinum lost her footing and fell over backwards, dragging Lois with her.

Together, since their hands were locked on each other, they started to tumble down the hillside. They were tumbling over and into each other as they rolled downward with increasing speed. After about ten feet they finally broke apart. Individually they continued to tumble, bouncing off of rocks, exposed roots, through brush, and off of saplings. With almost every roll they each hit some obstacle until, forty feet further downhill, they came to rest on a small plateau.

It took some seconds for each to realize that the ordeal was over. They climbed to their feet, dizzy and disoriented, facing one another warily at a distance of ten feet. Miraculously, each had been able to maintain their hold on their weapons, although the shaft of Lois's spear had been broken not quite in half.

Lois could feel a trickle of fluid on her upper lip and reached up to swipe at it with the back of her left hand. It came away bloody. Lois wasn't happy about that, but decided that she had fared somewhat better than her opponent, because Lois could see a red stain growing around a small rent in Platinum's jacket on the left side. Lois thought, _It hurt like hell when I hit that sapling. I hope it didn't break my nose. She must have rolled over her own knife and cut herself. It might make her anxious to end this. Make her overconfident and reckless._

Lois decided that she needed to lure Platinum into a reckless mistake. In order to do that, she would have to do something drastic, unexpected, and dangerous. It would all depend on just how good Platinum was with that knife.

In what, to Platinum, was an unexpected move, Lois discarded the spear as an ineffectual close-in weapon. Platinum didn't know that Lois preferred her grappling and striking techniques anyhow, and for that, she needed her hands free.

Seeing Lois discard the spear, Platinum began to smile, envisioning two easy kills. She still had her knife and now her opponent was unarmed — or so she thought. To this point, the battle had been conducted in relative silence aside from the grunts, groans, and cries of pain.

Platinum asked, "Have you decided to give up and accept your fate? You've realized that you can't win. Do you want an easy death?"

In a mocking tone, Lois taunted her, "No, I'm not looking for an easy death. Even though you have a knife, the odds might not be in your favor."

With a sneer, Platinum rushed to the attack. She was not as experienced as she could have been with the weapon she had, though she did know enough not to throw it. She held it low, a little above waist level and almost straight in front of her, ready to stab or slice as the opening occurred.

When she got close enough, she started a straightforward stab. She was totally unprepared for what her opponent did. As Platinum rushed at Lois, Lois sidestepped and grasped the sleeve of Platinum's knife hand. As she did, Lois began to whirl to her left. She pulled on Platinum's arm, making her continue to move in her direction of travel, using her momentum against her. In one smooth continuous flow, Lois pulled and spun. As she continued her move, her right arm came up into Platinum's left armpit and simultaneously she bent her knees slightly, putting her hip below the level of Platinum's groin. When she felt Platinum's body impact hers, Lois pulled with her right arm while straightening her legs again and finishing the spin to the left, pulling Platinum across her hip, performing a perfect Harai Goshi hip throw. Platinum's feet left the ground headed skyward as she rolled over Lois's right hip.

Platinum screamed as she saw the ground rushing up at her. Her scream was cut off abruptly as she hit the ground, her full weight impacting on her head and right shoulder. There was a loud crack as her right collar bone broke.

Platinum had stopped moving. Lois nudged her with the toe of her boot, rolling her over on her back. When she did, she could see blood welling from a large gash on Platinum's head where it had hit a jagged rock, which itself was covered with Platinum's blood.

Lois was standing over the defeated Platinum, breathing heavily, gasping from the exertion. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees as she took a minute to recover. She could feel aches all over her body from each and every root and rock she had hit in that tumble.

Wearily, Lois picked up the knife where it lay near Platinum's unconscious form, favoring her bitten hand as she grabbed the spear. As she stuck the knife into her belt, she looked at Platinum for a moment, a look of relief crossing her face as she confirmed that the girl was still breathing. Then she turned and ran — more stumbled — up the hill, swiping at her bleeding nose with her sleeve as she went.

Clark saw her coming and crouched down, trying to conceal himself in a nearby thicket of manzanita and ribbonwood. Lois saw him and stopped, keeping her distance.

"We're not allies, Farmboy, but I always did think the underdog deserved a chance," she called softly before running in the direction of the woods higher up the mountain.


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Hours later, Clark crept from his hiding place in the chaparral. He was deep enough into the brush that it was unlikely that any tributes — or large animals, for that matter — would be able to sneak up on him, but he couldn't stay there forever. In spite of helping with his recovery from the Kryptonite exposure, the hot afternoon sun was making him increasingly thirsty, forcing him from his hiding place in search of water.

The launch platforms and the cornucopia were in front of a lake, but he didn't dare to go there. That area would be under the control of the Careers by now, and any tribute attempting to get water or supplies would be killed. Clark couldn't risk a run-in with the Careers — or any other tribute, for that matter — in his current weakened state. He also couldn't discount the possibility that Platinum might be out there, in spite of her injuries in her fight with Lois. The last thing he needed was another exposure to Platinum's Kryptonite pendant.

Clark moved slowly to the southwest. He couldn't approach the lake from the side he was on, but if he went around it, he might be able to get water and find a better hiding place. The Career pack was strong, but it wasn't that big. There were only six of them — maybe seven, if they'd accepted Claude — and the lake was fairly large.

In spite of his thirst, Clark moved slowly. His head still ached from the Kryptonite exposure, though it was a dull pain now, rather than a sharp one. His body ached, too — not from the Kryptonite exposure, which had worn off enough that he was starting to recover — but from the numerous falls and blows he had taken earlier in the day. That wasn't something he was used to — he seldom fell, except when startled awake while floating in his sleep — and anything that ran into him was usually far more likely to suffer damage than he was.

Though he was no longer sick and weak from the Kryptonite, his body's usual ability to heal quickly was absent, something he noticed when a branch lashed against his cut arm. The cut was fairly shallow, but it still stung even though it had begun to scab over. Normally, any injury he got healed very quickly — on the day of the Reaping, when he'd bitten his finger to give the required blood sample, the wound had been completely healed by the time the Reaping was over — but Kryptonite exposure significantly lowered his ability to heal.

The thickness of the chaparral made for a slow walk — which was exactly why Clark had chosen it as a hiding place. Much of it was dry, making it almost impossible to move silently, and the sheer amount of vegetation, some of it thorny, made negotiating it a slow process. Neither tributes nor large animals could move quickly through it, although that could also work against him if any animals had chosen it for a resting place or if any tributes had decided to hide there like he had.

Clark finally reached the western end of the lake and started around it, hoping to find a safe place on the other side. What he found instead was a river flowing out of the lake, draining the overflow from an old dam. Looking around quickly and straining his ears to pick up any signs of danger, he turned west, following the narrow watercourse.

He stopped in a thicket of willow trees, crouching down and waiting to see if anyone had noticed his presence. When it became obvious that he was alone, he approached the water, hoping that it was safe. Normally, it wouldn't have mattered whether the water was clean or not, but now he worried that it might make him sick. It wasn't something that he had been concerned about during his previous exposures to Kryptonite, as the well from which the Kents pumped their water was clean, but now, with only surface water of dubious cleanliness available, he had to consider it.

The water was clear, with only a few leaves floating on it; in fact, it was so clear that he could see the rock strewn bottom and a few fish swimming past. It smelled clean, and the single drop Clark placed on his tongue tasted fine, but he still hesitated, fearing that he was wrong. It was fast becoming apparent, though, that if he didn't drink the water he would suffer severely from dehydration, perhaps even die from it, before he regained his invulnerability. If he did drink it, he might get sick, though that was far from a certainty, especially since the water was clear and moving quickly over algae-covered rocks, which any farm boy knew signified clean water, but, he thought, if the water was bad, he would most likely recover from whatever illness it triggered in him when he fully recovered from the Kryptonite exposure.

If he'd had his heat vision, he could have easily sterilized some water — but if he'd had his heat vision, it wouldn't have mattered whether the water was good or not. He had no container to put the water in and no way to purify it. Still, it was a risk he had to take. Clark scooped a handful of water into his mouth, forcing himself to drink slowly. Whether the water was safe or not, he wouldn't do himself any favors by drinking too quickly and making himself sick again.

When his thirst was finally quenched, Clark stood and looked around, his eyes falling on the low-hanging branches of the willows. He had no way to make willow bark tea, but the leaves could be used as they were to treat pain. He plucked a leaf and put it in his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Clark felt a sharp stab of grief as he remembered Becky's hopeful words about willow bark tea the night before, her optimism that it would make her feel better. Nothing could help her feel better now.

Ruthlessly, he pushed the feeling away. Grief was a luxury he couldn't afford right now — not when his own survival was at stake. He allowed anger to replace the grief — anger at the Capitol, for putting the sick girl into the Games, and anger at himself for failing to keep his promise to protect her. Logically, Clark knew there was nothing he could have done to save Becky — not after being exposed to Kryptonite. He couldn't have gotten to her in time to save her from the explosion; he might not have been able to get there quickly enough even at his full strength and speed. If he had stepped off his own launch plate, he would have set off the mines around it, and with the vulnerability that came with Kryptonite exposure, the explosion would have killed him just as quickly as it had killed his district partner.

All the logic in the world didn't change how he felt. Becky had trusted him, and he had failed to live up to that trust. She had died horribly, and her death had no doubt been broadcast and re-broadcast across Panem, the Capitolites shocked and yet thrilled at Becky's horrific end. In the districts, people would be sickened by what had happened — but they would watch anyway. There would be no mass refusal to watch the Games, and if a few people refused, the Peacekeepers would arrest them, using them as an example of what happened to those who defied the Capitol.

The Rasens were undoubtedly crowded inside their tiny, cramped apartment beside the factory they worked in, mourning the loss of their daughter and sister. Their friends would commiserate and would undoubtedly attend the short, unceremonious funeral once Becky's remains were returned to District 9, but no one would do anything to try to stop the yearly slaughter — and perhaps no one could do anything. Knowing his parents as he did, he was sure they would be there for the Rasens. He was comforted in the knowledge that the Rasens probably had seen how Becky had acted with him, how he had tried to take care of her — that he hadn't been the one to cause her death.

The funerals of deceased tributes were never shown on television because to do so might show the Capitolites that the tributes were more than just players in their violent game, might show people that the tributes had friends and family who loved them and would miss them. Some families never recovered from the loss of their children, but to show that might trigger feelings of compassion and anger, and that could lead to rebellion.

Clark knew without a doubt that his parents would watch every minute of the Games that they could, whether it was required or not, in hopes of catching a glimpse of him and confirming that he was okay. Not everything that happened in the Games was shown — only the most exciting parts. The tense minute leading up to the tributes leaving their launch plates was always shown, as was the bloodbath. Clark shuddered inwardly at the thought of what his parents must have felt when they saw his reaction to the Kryptonite. He knew as well that they would have been terrified at his near-death at Platinum's hands.

The thought of Platinum made Clark uneasy. The Careers were dangerous, but they were also arrogant and noisy, traits that could be their undoing. It was Platinum's token that made all the difference, as far as he was concerned. If he could avoid the other Careers, he would probably be okay, but the finely cut Kryptonite pendant could be his undoing. If he was exposed to it long enough, it might kill him outright. At the very least, it would make him easy to kill, something the Career tributes would take great pleasure in. This was especially true because he had scored so highly and he wasn't one of them. In their arrogance, they would simply see him as a usurper and an obstacle to be removed.

There was no way of knowing if Platinum was even still alive, though. She had been alive when Lois had left her — the lack of a boom from the cannon had made that plain enough — but she had also been badly injured. Clark had heard the crack of breaking bone when Platinum had landed at the end of her fight with Lois. He hadn't stuck around to find out if Platinum was going to survive. After Lois had spoken to him and spared his life, declining to kill him for the _second_ time, Clark had staggered into the chaparral, not stopping until he felt reasonably safe.

While huddled in the brush, waiting for the worst effects of the Kryptonite exposure to wear off, Clark had heard the cannon sound twice, but he'd had no idea who had died. He hoped that neither cannon had represented Lois, but he had no way to know.

It was growing late. The angle of the sun indicated that it would be setting in a couple of hours — at which point, if past Games were any indication, the Career pack would go hunting, looking for unwary, careless tributes to kill. Clark knew that it was imperative that he find a safe hiding place before then.

Staying beside the river was out of the question. It was the first place the Careers would look, and it would also attract other tributes who needed water. It would also draw thirsty nocturnal predators, and Clark had seen the tracks of some animals he didn't care to encounter.

Clark thought about going back into the brush, but realized that if the Careers decided to try a strategy that had worked three years before — burning other tributes out — he would be unable to escape. Wherever he hid, it had to be a place he had a reasonable chance of escaping if need be.

He headed west again, keeping his distance from the river. No one challenged him, but he did see a few footprints that showed that other tributes had passed that way. He moved along warily, looking for two things now — a tree that he could climb and a source of food.

As Clark had known it would, his appetite had returned with a vengeance, his body demanding nourishment to replace the energy it had expended recovering from the Kryptonite exposure. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop to search for food — not with night coming on. He managed to pick some half-ripe manzanita berries and a few clusters of elderberries and pull a couple of cattails from a marshy spot, tucking the food into his pockets, but that was all. Finding a safe place to hide was more important than finding food. One hungry night wouldn't kill him.

Clark froze as he heard a twig snap nearby. The noise was followed by a squeal of pain and the sound of something clattering to the ground. There was a flurry of movement in the bushes and the sound of someone walking around. Then the person cursed angrily. A moment later, the sound of their footsteps grew fainter as they walked in the opposite direction.

Whatever had been running through the bushes was coming Clark's way. He stepped into the shadows, looking in the direction of the sound. It didn't sound big, but he wasn't taking any chances.

A moment later, a rabbit crawled into the open, dragging its injured hindquarters. The person Clark had heard had attempted to hunt it, but hadn't been quite successful. The animal was severely injured, easy prey now, but had managed to get away from its original hunter.

When the rabbit came near, Clark pounced on it. He was hungry, and the rabbit was as easy for him to catch as it would have been for any other predator. It squealed again, but a quick twist of the animal's neck ended its struggles. He avoided looking at its eyes, which seemed to be looking at him accusingly. Killing and butchering animals had never been something he'd enjoyed, but it was part of the reality of life on a farm, a necessity he'd long ago learned to live with.

It was a fairly good-sized rabbit, but now that he had it, Clark realized that he wasn't sure what to do with it. He knew how to skin and gut an animal, of course, but he had no knife, and he had no easy way to start a fire to cook the rabbit with. He wasn't about to try to eat it uncooked — he'd known people who'd gotten tularemia from undercooked rabbit, and he wasn't going to risk getting it himself.

Clark looked in the direction of the sun — he still had about an hour until it set. He was near a stand of oaks, sturdy trees that he could climb easily, and even if someone tried to climb up after him, he would still have the high ground. There was also enough dead wood on the ground that he thought he might be able to make a fire with a hand drill. If he built it away from where he intended to hide, he might be able to throw the Careers off about his actual location.

Thirty minutes later, Clark gave up in frustration. There was plenty of wood, but finding pieces of the right size and shape to make a hand drill was nearly impossible, and when he did find a piece of wood of the right size and shape for the platform, the hard oak proved very difficult to put a usable notch in with the semi-sharp rock he'd found. The hard wood of the platform didn't work well for starting a fire, and after a few minutes, Clark realized that he simply didn't have the stamina to keep the drill moving until the friction built up enough to ignite the dried moss he had found to use as tinder.

Picking up the rabbit, rock, drill, and platform, Clark trudged back into the stand of oaks, choosing a large, sturdy one to climb. Standing at the base, looking up at it, at the branch just above his reach that he would have to jump up and grab onto in order to climb, he realized just how tired he was. Between the Kryptonite exposure, the exertion, and the lack of rest the night before, he was exhausted.

There was still some time before sunset. He could probably sit and rest for a few minutes before hauling himself up into the tree. There was no sign of the tribute who had been hunting the rabbit, so it was probably safe enough.

Clark felt his eyes drooping shut as soon as he sat down. He struggled to keep them open, but then he gave in to his body's demands. It wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a couple of minutes, and he would still hear anyone approaching.

He closed his eyes, and that was the last he knew for some time.

*****

Clark awoke abruptly at the sound of a twig snapping. Someone — or something — was trying to sneak up on him. He opened his eyes slightly, looking to see who or what it was without letting them know he was awake.

He more sensed than saw that another tribute loomed over him. With startling swiftness, Clark opened his eyes the rest of the way and gave the person a shove, knocking them down. He scrambled to his feet, tense and poised to run or fight as needed.

The tribute he had knocked over got up almost as quickly. In the gathering dusk, it took Clark a moment to recognize her.

"Lois?!" he exclaimed in shock.

He started to reach for her, to see if she was all right.

When he had knocked her down, it had been so sudden and unexpected that she had dropped the spear and the knife fell out of her belt. She mistook his move as the beginning of an attack and watched as he stepped forward. She took a half step back and he followed, just as she had hoped he would. She took another retreating step and he sped up to close the distance. Now he was close enough to touch and she grabbed bunches of his jacket in each hand as she continued to move back, pulling him along, using his momentum against him. Once she was sure he was moving as she wanted, she bent her knees and started falling backwards. She curled her back in preparation for the technique and pulled her right foot up placing it in his mid-section. As she felt her butt hit the ground, she rolled back and pushed with her right leg, straightening it convulsively in a clean Tammoanagi, backward rolling throw. His feet left the ground as he sailed over her head, doing a flip. He landed on his back with a thud and she could hear his breath come out in a whoosh.

She was instantly back on her feet, spinning to face him again. As she watched, he shook his head and staggered to his feet. He approached her again. His intent was to explain that she had nothing to fear from him, but the lack of air in his lungs prevented him from uttering a single word.

Again, she misinterpreted his move as an attack. She allowed him to get into range and, grabbing his extended right arm, pulled. He half-stumbled forward as she spun and dipped. She pulled his arm over her right shoulder as she bent at the waist and straightened her legs again. This time she was trying to perform an Ippon Saionagi, the One Point Shoulder throw. However, he was a lot heavier than she expected and she wasn't able to complete the throw, as her legs actually collapsed under the unexpected weight. She fell flat on the ground with him sprawled out on top of her.

She started to struggle in fear for her life. She felt completely helpless. She thrashed about, twisting and kicking as best she could.

When she finally stopped, Clark was still on top of her, straddling her hips with one of her hands in each of his, stretched out over her head and pinned to the ground. His face was short inches from hers.

"What the hell are you doing?" Clark hissed, keeping Lois pinned. "Is that why you saved my life this morning — so you could kill me now?"

Lois spat out a mouthful of dirt and leaves. "I wasn't trying to kill you!" she snapped.

Clark glanced in the direction of the weapons she had lost in the struggle. "You could have fooled me."

"You were trying to kill me!" Lois shouted.

"I was not!" Clark responded indignantly. "I just —"

"Just shoved me in the dirt!" Lois interrupted. "And then attacked me! That's some way to treat an ally."

Clark gave her a disbelieving look. "You're the one who said you didn't need allies. And besides, you snuck up on me while I was resting. If you weren't trying to kill me, what the hell were you doing?"

"You stole my rabbit!"

"I … what?"

"That rabbit is mine! I'm the one who speared it!"

"It got away from you. I'm the one who killed it."

"You couldn't have killed it without my help!"

Clark had to admit that this was true … but he would never tell Lois that. "We can share it," he told her.

"Share it!?"

"Or else you get nothing."

"You can't tell me —"

"Who's lying in the dirt this time?" Clark asked. "I don't think you're in any position to negotiate."

"It wouldn't do you any good anyway, Pukeface!"

"Everybody was getting airsick this morning," Clark reminded her, "including you."

"I'm better now!"

"So am I. Are we going to share, or are you going to go away hungry?" Clark got up, rushing to pick up the knife and broken spear before Lois could get to them.

"I saved your life!"

"And then you tried to kill me! You're lucky I'm willing to let you walk away — and with half a rabbit, too!"

"I already told you I wasn't trying to kill you! Believe me, if I'd wanted you dead, we wouldn't be here talking right now. And now you're going to make me walk off into the woods with no weapons, totally defenseless!"

"Lois, if there's one thing you'll never be, it's totally defenseless." He reached back and rubbed his neck and back. "I know that from firsthand experience," he added wryly, and then continued, "now, forgive me if I don't quite trust you with a deadly weapon in your hand."

"And I should trust you?"

"You don't have a choice, but I promise that I won't hurt you unless you attack me first." Clark picked up the rabbit. "Do you want to share it, or not?"

Lois stared at him, torn between her hunger and the fear that Clark would turn on her now that the weapons were in his hands. She was about to answer when the sound of approaching voices reached them.

Both Lois and Clark froze, realizing what the sound meant — the Career pack was hunting already, although it wasn't fully dark yet.

Clark shoved the rabbit into his jacket and turned toward the tree he had planned to climb. Lois was beside him in an instant, leaping for the lowest branch — which proved to be just out of her reach.

With a quiet cry of frustration, she tried again — and again couldn't quite reach it. She was about to run farther into the stand of trees, searching for a more climbable one, when Clark grabbed her and boosted her up to the lowest branch. He grunted in surprise at the effort it took to lift her — he wasn't used to having to exert himself to lift anything.

Lois climbed higher as Clark jumped and grabbed the branch himself. He pulled himself upward onto it, almost overbalancing and pitching off it face first before he caught hold of another branch and steadied himself, then started climbing.

Lois was about sixty feet up when she stopped climbing, fearing that the branches above wouldn't hold her weight. She sank down on the highest branch she could safely reach, gripping the trunk and listening to the sounds of Clark climbing after her and the Careers coming closer.

Clark stopped climbing about three feet below Lois. He moved carefully to the other side of the trunk, not entirely trusting her not to shove him out of the tree, and found a sturdy branch to sit on. Both of them looked down through the thick foliage, listening to the Careers' laughter and watching the beam of light that indicated that they had at least one flashlight.

Neither of them was certain what the Career tributes were laughing about — there had been no screams, nor had the cannons boomed. Bits of the conversation drifted up to them as the hunters came closer.

"Remember the look on his face? 'I thought we were friends,'" one of them mocked. "He should have run — Three never joins the Career pack."

Another Career giggled. "And the way he screamed — he sounded like a little girl."

Clark looked up at Lois's sharp intake of breath, realizing what she did — the Careers had killed Claude. Despite Lois's antipathy towards Claude, she was still shocked at what had happened to him.

The beam of light came closer as the Careers ventured onto the oak dotted hillside. Clark braced himself, holding tightly to the tree trunk as he waited for the familiar wave of pain from Platinum's Kryptonite token — but it didn't come. Either Platinum wasn't with them, or she had left her token behind.

"Someone's been here," one of the male Careers announced, shining the flashlight over the crushed grass and churned-up dirt where Lois and Clark had been fighting a short time earlier. He shone the flashlight around, searching for them, then turned it up into the tree.

Both Clark and Lois sat absolutely still, hoping not to be seen. The darkness and the thick foliage largely hid them from view, and their clothing blended in with the tree, but if the Careers discovered where they were …

At last, the boy with the flashlight gave up and began to search the other trees. Finding no one, they moved on, searching for their human prey.

Looking in the direction that the careers were taking, Clark spotted a fire that some incautious tribute had kindled either for warmth or to cook something.

A short time later, a terrified scream followed by the boom of a cannon announced that the Careers had been successful. It was silent for a while after that — until the roar of an angry animal echoed through the night.

The Careers shouted and cursed, fleeing back the way they had come. There was a male scream and another cannon sounded. The remaining Careers rushed past the stand of oaks, shoving each other in their panic and arguing over what the animal had been — a mountain lion, a bear, a wolf, or a muttation of some sort.

Everything was silent after the Careers fled except for a frustrated scream from the predator in the dark woods as the hovercraft descended and removed its prey. Still clinging to the tree trunk, Clark barely heard Lois's soft words in the darkness. "So much for Career loyalty."

Not long after that, Panem's anthem was played by one of the hovercraft in the vicinity. An enormous screen was lowered, the images projected on it showing the tributes who had died that day.

The images didn't tell them how the tributes had died, nor did they give the tributes' names. There was just a head shot of each deceased tribute, along with their district number.

Lois gasped in shock at the first image, which was that of Platinum. "No," she whispered. "She was alive when I left her. I'm sure of it."

The other images quickly played out across the screen. Claude. The boy from District 4. The boy from District 6. The girl from District 7. Becky. Both tributes from District 11. Both tributes from District 12.

Ten dead in one day.

Clark clenched his hands when he saw Becky's picture. He'd known she was dead, but somehow, seeing it projected on the screen made it that much more real. His only comfort was that she had made it into the arena, which meant that her sisters were safe — for this year, at least.

"I'm so sorry, Becky," he whispered. "I wanted to protect you …"

He looked up at the sound of a sniffle. "Lois? Are you okay?"

Lois was silent for a moment before she responded. "Don't judge me, Farmboy." Her voice was choked with tears. "I attacked her to save your life. I didn't mean to kill her."

"I'm not judging you, Lois. I'm just thankful to be alive."

"You don't plan on killing anyone, but you'll find out. There's fourteen of us left, and you won't have a choice. Don't tell me you wouldn't have killed to protect Becky."

Clark might have, and he knew it, but the question was moot. Becky was gone.

"I don't know, Lois. I really don't. I don't want to kill … anyone."

"I didn't want to kill Platinum, but she's still dead." Lois's voice broke again.

"You don't know that it was you. She was alive when you left her. Someone else might have —"

"She was injured — perhaps mortally. You weren't close enough to see what she looked like, the way her shoulder looked or how much her head was bleeding. She was unconscious when I left her, and it probably didn't take her long to die."

"You still can't be sure you killed her. It could have been anyone, even another Career."

"It was me," she said with conviction.

There would be no convincing Lois that she might not have killed Platinum, so Clark fell silent. He rested his head against the tree trunk, wishing that he could do something to console her, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to convince her that she hadn't killed Platinum, just as he couldn't convince himself that he hadn't failed Becky.

Lois cried quietly for a few minutes before calming. She turned her head in Clark's direction, unable to see him but knowing where he was.

"Clark?"

Clark lifted his head, startled. It was the first time Lois had called him by name. "What?"

"I'm sorry … about Becky. She seemed like a nice girl."

"She was," Clark told her, leaning his forehead against the tree. Lois could cry for what had happened in the arena that day, but all Clark felt at the moment was an overwhelming sense of numbness. Becky was dead, along with nine other tributes, and he himself had come close to being killed, but right now, he didn't feel much of anything.

"Was she really your sister?"

Clark shook his head. Then, realizing that she couldn't see the movement, he spoke up. "No. I barely knew her until we were both Reaped. I sort of … adopted her, I guess. She was so young and innocent."

They fell silent again for a few minutes, until Lois once again broke the silence.

"You surprised me. You're a lot heavier than you look. I should have been able to throw you."

He had to think fast. "I guess muscle is heavier than fat. Working on a farm is hard work. I'm stronger than I look."

"That must be it. I'm not going to kill you," she told Clark. "We're not allies, but I still won't kill you."

"No, we're not allies," Clark agreed, "but I won't kill you, either, and I'll defend you if I can."

"No alliances, though."

"Alliances in the arena have to be broken," Clark said. "We're not allies. We'll just … watch out for each other."


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The first faint light of dawn found Lois and Clark still high in the tree. Both were asleep, secured to the tree with their belts to prevent them from falling.

After the Careers had fled the night before, the woods had mostly been silent — except for the scream, about two hours later, of a tribute who had fallen asleep in a tree and fallen. In the silent woods, everyone could hear the branches breaking as the tribute fell. There had been a dull thud as the tribute had hit the ground, followed shortly by the sound of a cannon.

The noise had sent Lois and Clark, who had both been growing drowsy, searching frantically for a way to keep themselves in the tree if they fell asleep. Falling from sixty feet up was likely to be fatal, or at least cause severe injury, but it wasn't safe to sleep on the ground — not with a hungry predator roaming the forest.

It was Lois who had come up with the idea to use their belts to secure themselves to the branches they were sitting on, and shortly thereafter, both battered, exhausted tributes had fallen asleep.

For Clark, the need to secure himself while he slept had been twofold — if he fell from the tree while vulnerable, he was likely to be killed, while if he regained his invulnerability while he slept and then fell, he would be hard-pressed to explain why he was completely uninjured. Even more worrisome was the possibility that he would regain his ability to fly and float out of the tree, something that he wouldn't be able to explain away by any stretch of the imagination.

Clark awoke first, shivering slightly in the chilly morning air. He realized immediately that his extraordinary abilities had not yet returned — the cold wouldn't have bothered him if they had. Unbelting himself from the tree, he looked around carefully, listening for any sign of danger. He heard the river running and birds singing, but nothing that indicated a threat.

He climbed down slowly, feeling stiff and sore from all the bruises and from the exertion of the day before. He had heard his parents complain about stiff muscles after long days in the fields, but had never quite understood what they meant until now.

Clark looked up into the tree and saw that Lois was still asleep, but was beginning to stir. Another look around assured him that they were reasonably safe for the moment, so he turned in the direction of the river, seeking water and perhaps a few more berries and cattails to go with the rabbit. The little food he had gathered the afternoon before had been shared with Lois during the night, along with a few pine nuts that Lois had found.

When Clark returned, he found Lois standing beneath the tree, squinting at the sunlight and grumbling to herself about the ludicrousness of the Gamemakers making the sun rise so early.

Clark stifled a laugh when he heard her — he doubted she'd appreciate him chuckling at her remarks. He was reasonably certain that the sunrise was perfectly natural, but didn't think that was what she wanted to hear.

He held out the cleaned rabbit. "Hungry?"

Lois stared at the carcass, wrinkling her nose. "I don't suppose you've managed to forage any coffee?"

"No, but I did find more cattails and some wild grapes."

Lois sighed. "Water it is, I suppose." She turned in the direction of the river, yawning.

"Wait." Clark held out the knife. "It seems safe enough, but just in case …"

Lois looked at him suspiciously. "You're not afraid I'll stab you?"

"Are you planning to?"

"No. I keep my promises."

"Well, then …" Clark handed her the knife. Giving it to her was more than a way of ensuring her safety — it was also a gesture of trust.

Lois looked at the knife for a moment before taking it. She slid it into her belt and met Clark's eyes for a moment before turning and heading in the direction of the river.

By the time Lois returned, her hair wet from where she'd plunged her head into the river to wake herself up, Clark had collected some wood and cleared an area of dry leaves and grass. He was trying to make a fire using the drill and platform from the day before — and was once again not having much success.

"It'll help if we work together," Lois told him, sitting on the other side of the platform and putting her hands near the top of the drill.

Clark nodded. He'd practiced making a fire with Becky, keeping the stick moving until his hands were nearly to the platform and then letting her start at the top. Ideally, the drill would never stop moving, as one person would take over at the top as soon as the other person reached the platform, but Becky had never been able to keep the stick spinning long enough for the friction to build up and create a burning coal. Even with Clark's help, Becky had been unable to start a fire without a match.

Lois was much stronger than Becky had been, though, and before too long smoke rose from the notch in the platform, encouraging them to redouble their efforts. Not long after, a small, smoldering chunk of the platform burned through and landed on the small pile of dry moss and grass.

Clark shoved the drill and platform aside and blew gently on the coal, feeding bits of dry grass and leaves to the tiny flames until they grew. Next he added small sticks, then larger ones, until a small fire blazed in the tiny clearing. He made no effort to build it larger — the sunlight helped to hide the light of the fire from a distance, and the early hour made it less likely that other tributes would come looking for the source of the smoke, but he wasn't about to take unnecessary chances.

Lois looked from Clark to the rabbit uncertainly. Finally, she said, "Well, since you went to all the trouble of getting everything for the fire, I guess I can cook the rabbit."

Clark offered the rabbit to her. When she still hesitated, he asked, "Do you know how to cook it?"

Lois looked at him challengingly. "How hard can it be?"

Within a short time, it became apparent that Lois didn't know how to cook over an open fire. She had no idea what the sharpened oak branch Clark handed her was for, and after he showed her how to skewer the meat and extend it over the fire, she neglected to turn it, resulting in one side quickly overcooking and then catching fire.

Startled, Lois dropped both skewer and meat into the flames. Clark, forgetting for a moment both where he was and the fact that he wasn't invulnerable, tried to retrieve them and burned himself.

"Ow!" Clark put his burned fingers in his mouth.

Lois rolled her eyes at him. "I may not be a great cook, Farmboy, but at least I know better than to put my hand in a fire." Taking the broken spear from him, she used it to take the meat from the fire and dropped it on a nearby flat boulder. Clark helped her put out the remaining flames, and then they both stared at the charred meat in dismay.

Taking the spear from Lois, Clark poked at the rabbit, remembering this time not to touch it, and said, "I think it's still edible."

The meat was burnt on the outside and still slightly undercooked on the inside, but neither tribute had eaten much in the past day. Lois had been too nervous to eat much before entering the arena, and Clark too sick from the Kryptonite poisoning. Both had expended a lot of energy in the hours that followed, and Clark's body was demanding more strongly than ever that he replenish the energy it had burned recovering from the exposure to Kryptonite.

Lois took the knife from her belt and set about dividing the meat. As she hacked at it, she snapped at Clark, "I do know how to cook!"

Clark glanced at the charred rabbit, then back at Lois, his face showing his skepticism. "I can!" she insisted. "Okay, so it's only four things, and only one of them without chocolate, but it's still cooking."

"I guess the one without chocolate isn't rabbit."

"I didn't think it would be that hard! It's just a piece of meat." Lois finished cutting the rabbit into pieces. Shoving half of the meat in Clark's direction, she knelt down next to the rock, grabbed a piece of her share, and took a bite.

Clark picked up a piece of rabbit, bit into it, and chewed it slowly. It was terrible, but he was too polite to say so and too hungry to really care.

Lois made a face, but kept eating. "Claude said he loved my cooking. I guess that's just one more thing he lied about."

"Maybe what you made for him was good."

"I didn't make it for him! He just assumed it was his, and I was dumb enough to fall for his charm. He was a waste of perfectly good chocolate." Lois flung a bone into the brush and went on. "He just wanted my project. At the end of eleventh grade, everyone in District 3 does an end-of-year project, working on some new technology or looking for ways to improve an old technology. Then they write a paper about it, and the best ideas are put into use and used to help develop new things.

"Claude and I were both working with my father on the prosthetics he designs — did you know that they can actually make a person stronger than they were before? But Claude wasn't doing a very good job at writing up his project, so he stole mine. He tricked me and then stole my paper, so he got the top score and all the accolades while I got a failing grade. He was pressuring me into having sex and I just wasn't sure I wanted to. He just kept pressuring me and pressuring me and finally I just ran to my room and locked the door. When I finally came out, he was gone, and so was my paper. Then that scum spread a rumor that I was frigid, so I got a reputation, too. And when I told my father what Claude had done, he just said that it wouldn't have happened if I'd been born a boy like he wanted."

"Lois, I —" Clark began, but Lois kept going as if she hadn't heard him.

"I couldn't believe it when both Claude and I were Reaped. I told him that if he came anywhere near me, I'd kill him. He just laughed at me. And to think I thought I loved him for a while! I'm glad he's not going to be victor — he'd be even more insufferable if he was! Still, what the Careers did wasn't right. You don't pretend to be someone's friend and then turn on them, even if that person would turn on you, but I guess that's what the Careers always do, and …" She trailed off, looking up at Clark. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"It's okay," Clark assured her. "What he did to you was awful. It's no wonder you two were always fighting."

"I hated him, but what the Careers did still wasn't fair. He was a lying, cheating scumbag, but still …" It dawned on Lois how much she'd just revealed to Clark, someone she barely knew. Looking at him fiercely, she demanded, "You'd better not breathe a word of this to anyone!"

Clark thought it prudent not to point out that she'd just told everyone in Panem about what had happened with Claude. "I won't say anything." He couldn't speak for everyone else in Panem, though. Changing the subject, he asked, "Where did you learn to fight? I've never seen anyone fight like you do."

"I was just defending myself. It was nothing special."

"You managed to flip me over your head, even though I'm bigger than you. You threw Platinum —" Clark stopped when he saw the stony look on Lois's face.

"Those were dance moves. It's not my fault if you weren't expecting them!"

"I don't think I'd like to go to dances in your district."

"You don't use those moves at dances. They're for performances. District 3 has a long tradition of that kind of performing arts. It isn't for fighting."

Clark suddenly understood what Lois was saying — and what she wasn't saying. The Capitol let the residents of District 3 get away with fighting moves disguised as dance as long as they weren't too obvious about it. As long as it didn't threaten the Capitol — and provided a good show in the arena — it was acceptable, but the moment anyone openly acknowledged that District 3's dance moves could be used for fighting, there would be a crackdown. The technology developed in District 3 made it popular with the Capitol, but the slightest hint of rebellion would bring unpleasant consequences.

"In District 9, we have a tradition of square dancing. It's used at dances, but some people are so good at it that everybody gathers around to watch. I guess people like to watch a good show everywhere."

Lois nodded, acknowledging that she understood what he was saying — that he knew that no one should admit that her defensive moves were anything other than an art form, in spite of their usefulness in the arena. After all, if an art form such as flower arranging gave a tribute the ability to identify plants, or a game that involved throwing a ball taught a tribute to aim a spear or rock, then certainly the ability to dance might give a tribute the strength to win a fight. Training for the Games was forbidden, though overlooked in the Career districts, but tributes with survival skills gained through the everyday work of their districts made the Games more interesting to the viewers in the Capitol, and the added excitement of special skills learned through harmless games or art forms kept the Capitolites watching and gave the Gamemakers the ratings they craved.

*****

After finishing their meal, Lois and Clark put out the fire and left the stand of oaks behind. Staying in one place was too dangerous, especially with thirteen tributes left. The Career pack had been reduced by a third, but was still dangerous — especially since they'd almost found them the night before, and might be back for a second look — and the other tributes were also a threat. Though most of them wouldn't consider killing under normal circumstances, all of them were aware that surviving the Hunger Games meant being the last one alive, and every competitor killed increased a tribute's chances of survival.

Clark was an especially attractive target because of his high training score. It meant that he had strength and skills, unknown though they were to the other tributes, which made him a deadly threat. Eliminating him would, in the minds of his competitors, make them much safer.

Lois, too, was regarded as a threat. Her training score, though not as high as Clark's, was still higher than most non-Career females scored. Those who had witnessed her fight with Platinum knew that she could be dangerous — and so she was, therefore, a prime target. In almost all Games, the low-scoring tributes who survived the bloodbath were ignored until later, while the high-scoring tributes who weren't part of the Career pack were hunted down. The Careers themselves were almost always high-scoring, so their practice of banding together helped keep them safe from other tributes who saw them as threats to be eliminated.

Neither Lois nor Clark had the slightest desire to kill anyone, and both wanted to avoid confrontations if at all possible. They spent the day exploring the arena, keeping their distance from the Cornucopia and avoiding the other tributes. There was safety in numbers — few tributes without allies would confront the two of them directly — but that didn't rule out the possibility of an ambush.

Clark wondered when his unusual abilities would return. By the time twenty-four hours had passed since he was first exposed to the Kryptonite, they still had not returned. When he had been exposed to Kryptonite at age sixteen, he had been without his strange abilities for three days, but it had been a much larger piece of stone than Platinum's pendant, and he had been exposed for quite a while before his parents had found him. It stood to reason, though, that even if Platinum's pendant had been smaller, he'd had closer contact with it, if only for the short time that she'd been attacking him. The pendant had brushed against his neck when she'd tackled him, burning as painfully as the hottest flame.

At the time of his last exposure, he hadn't yet developed all of the abilities that he now possessed, and in fact hadn't even fully developed the ones that he did have. This was his first exposure to Kryptonite since he had learned to fly, and the amount of time it would take for him to fully recover was unknown. Though the lack of his unusual talents did ensure that no one would catch on that he had them, he wasn't used to being vulnerable to attack and injury, and the knowledge that someone else could kill him — and probably would, given the chance — was scary.

Clark didn't know if there was any Kryptonite left in the arena. He was reasonably certain that Platinum's pendant was gone, since anything a tribute had with them when the hovercraft picked up their body was also removed from the arena. There was an old, unspoken rule that stealing another tribute's token was forbidden, a rule developed by the Career tributes decades earlier after one had stolen the token from the body of another, resulting in a fight that had wound up wiping out the Career pack, ultimately resulting in the first of the only two victories District 12 had ever had.

It was unlikely that any other tribute had any Kryptonite — Clark would have felt it if they did. That didn't rule out any existing naturally in the arena, nor did it rule out the possibility that the Gamemakers had had some placed in the arena to see what the tributes would do with it. He hadn't come across any, but that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't there.

Clark was still aching from the unaccustomed injuries he'd gotten, and examined his burned fingers so often that Lois commented on it.

"What's the matter, Farmboy? Don't tell me you've never burned yourself before."

"I'm usually more careful," Clark replied. He had burned himself a few times in the past, but it was easy to forget that it hurt when he didn't have to worry about it.

"You'll live," Lois told him, then added, "and your fingers will hurt less if you leave them alone."

"You should take your own advice and stop poking at the bruises on your face," Clark informed her crossly, not appreciating being lectured on taking care of himself.

Lois rolled her eyes at him, but after that they both stopped constantly probing their injuries.

Sometime later, when they stopped in the shade of a willow tree to drink from the small spring that kept the tree alive, Clark looked at the cut on his arm and discovered that it was beginning to heal. Wondering if it might heal faster if he got more sunlight, he took his shirt off, tying it around his waist along with his jacket.

Lois made a face. "Trying to impress the ladies, Kent?"

Clark hadn't thought that it might bother her. In District 9, it was common for men and boys to go without shirts in the heat of summer. He was about to apologize when he noticed that she kept glancing at him, then looking away.

Deciding to tease her a little instead, he asked, "Are you impressed?"

"No!" Lois replied quickly — a little too quickly. "Of course not."

Clark grinned at her discomfiture. Lois glared at him.

"Men! You're all alike. You think you can show some muscles and flash a charming smile and the girls will just fall at your feet."

"You think I have a charming smile?"

"There's nothing remotely charming about you, Kent, and I'm definitely not impressed. Now, you should put your shirt back on before you get sunburned."

"No … I like the feeling of the sun on my back."

"Suit yourself, but don't complain to me when you burn."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

*****

Late in the afternoon, Lois and Clark made their way to the far side of the lake from where the Cornucopia was. As they made their way up a pine-covered hill, Lois suddenly pulled the knife. Clark looked around apprehensively. Did Lois see or hear something that he had missed? As he watched, she calmly walked over to a pine sapling and started hacking at the trunk. Once she had this tree cut down, she selected another one for the same treatment.

She picked up the one she had just felled and started cutting off the limbs. Once she finished with that one, she did the same to the other. Then she measured a length half again as long as her arm and lopped off the trunk at that length. She cut the second one to the same length.

After stripping the bark off, she whittled one end on each until she had two slightly flattened sides on each. Taking the point of the knife she started to drill a hole an inch or so from the end. Once she had a hole in each, she turned to Clark and asked, "Can I have a piece of the rabbit skin?"

Clark had been watching all of this in wonder. Taking the rabbit hide from his belt, he handed it to her. As he did, he asked, "Mind telling me what you're making?"

Absently, as she worked cutting the hide into strips, she replied, "Just a little something we use when we dance. They are called streamer sticks. A streamer is attached to the end, and while dancing, you wave the sticks around so that the streamers make patterns. The object is to keep the streamer from hitting the ground. My streamers are twenty feet long. I'm the best in my age group."

When she finished with the rabbit hide strips, she threaded one each through the hole in the sticks and tied them into loops. She stuck the knife back in her belt and, taking a stick in each hand, demonstrated. The sticks became a blur of motion, describing figure eights intertwining in front and beside her. Clark could see that anyone or anything entering the perimeter created by these moving sticks would be in for a wallop.

Now armed with a weapon that she was intimately familiar with, and leaving the knife in her belt, they moved on.

As they were skirting the crown of a hill, Lois noticed something.

"What's that?" She pointed to a pile of boulders that appeared to have a cave-like gap in them.

Clark looked at it cautiously. "It might be a cave."

"Let's go take a look." Lois started in the direction of the rock pile.

"Lois, wait …" Clark sighed in resignation and followed her. Lois seemed to test her luck more than anyone he'd ever met. Not only had she earned the ire of the Careers before they entered the arena, picked a fight with Platinum to save his life, and attempted to sneak up on him while he was sleeping the evening before, but earlier in the afternoon she had startled a large rattlesnake and barely missed being bitten and then had come across the District 8 boy, who had pulled a knife before seeing Clark running up to Lois. The boy had decided against confronting both of them and had run away.

Fortunately, Lois's luck was still holding. The cave was empty except for a single camera wedged in between two small boulders for the best possible view of the rock shelter. There were a few paw prints, but they were old, and it was evident that no tribute had found it before them.

One rock wall was black with centuries' worth of soot, and another held the artwork of various cultures, all of it centuries old, ranging from the ritual artwork of the native people who had inhabited the area five hundred years before, to the marks left by explorers and pioneers, to an ode written to a long-defunct brand of beer. The front of the cave was wide enough to walk in and out of, though a tall person would need to duck their head, while the back was almost completely enclosed, with just enough of an opening to allow smoke to escape.

"We could hide here," Lois said when they stepped out of the small space. "We could have a fire in here to keep us warm at night and cook our food, and it would be hard to see outside the cave. The lake isn't so close that other tributes are likely to stumble over this place, but we can still get water, and there are edible plants nearby, and animals, too. One person could guard the entrance while the other one sleeps, and it would be easy to defend."

Clark didn't argue with her. She was right about the cave. It was a relatively safe place, and sleeping there would be more comfortable than sleeping in a tree. They didn't have much food at the moment, but if they stayed in one place they would have the chance to gather more and to set some snares using their bootlaces. He had still not regained his invulnerability, and didn't relish the thought of spending another night in the open. The mountain air grew chilly at night, and beyond the discomfort, there was the ever-present threat of other tributes.

"Well?!" Lois demanded.

Clark realized that he'd been lost in thought for a few minutes. "You're right. We'll stay here — at least for the night."

The air was growing cool, so Clark quickly put his shirt and jacket back on. Lois stared at him, arms crossed, obviously annoyed by something.

"What?" Clark asked.

"How did you keep from getting sunburned?" Lois demanded. Her own face was red with sunburn, and that, combined with the pain from the bruises and cuts, was making her uncomfortable and cranky.

"I don't know," Clark answered honestly. He didn't. He wasn't sure if his body's ability to make use of sunlight prevented him from burning, or if he was starting to regain his invulnerability. Whatever the reason, he wasn't sunburned at all. "Maybe it's all the time I spend working in the sun at home."

Lois still looked irritated, but didn't respond. Finally, she said, "We should collect some wood before it gets dark if we're going to build a fire."

*****

When they returned with the wood, Clark pulled a handful of willow leaves from his pocket and handed them to Lois. She looked at them for a moment, not knowing what they were for.

"They're not much," Clark told her, "but if you chew the leaves — just one at a time, because they're really bitter — they'll help your face hurt less."

"At home, we have medicine for sunburn."

"If you were at home, you wouldn't be sunburned like this."

Lois grimaced, but tried one of the leaves, making exaggerated expressions of disgust over the bitter taste. Clark could only imagine how entertaining the people watching the Games would find her.

Working together, they made another fire, then ate the little food they'd gathered that day. When the national anthem played, they stepped out of the cave, glancing around cautiously, and looked up at the screen to see who had died that day.

There had been two deaths in the past twenty-four hours, that of the tribute who had fallen from the tree and another whose cannon had sounded around noon that day. It was impossible to say which tribute was which, nor did they know what the second tribute had died from. Both dead tributes were girls, one from District 8 and the other from District 10.

Clark picked up a rock and flung it angrily into the darkness. "Yesterday morning, all twenty-four of us were alive. Now … only half of us are."

He glanced at Lois in surprise when she put a soothing hand on his arm. "At least they aren't suffering," she said quietly.

"They shouldn't have —" Clark closed his mouth. Protesting against the Capitol's policies from the arena was a sure way to bring retribution.

He stared up at the night sky, frowning when he realized something — the stars bore no resemblance to anything found in nature. The first night in the arena, his view of the sky had been sufficiently hidden by the foliage of the oak tree that he hadn't noticed the odd pattern, but now he realized that these stars could only be projected by the Gamemakers.

"How do they do that?" he asked Lois, wondering if she might know. The technology had probably been developed in District 3.

"There's a force field surrounding the whole arena," Lois told him, "including above us. It's so no one can get in and interrupt the Games. The stars look like that so we can't comment on them and tell anyone where we are."

As they watched, the star projections changed into the distinct pattern of a heart, then changed again to form a crescent moon shape.

Clark's heart sank at Lois's words. In the back of his mind, he'd held out the hope that he might be able to escape the arena, and perhaps rescue some of the other tributes, by flying out of it. The force field made that impossible. He could break through most things, but not force fields.

There was no possibility of getting out of the arena.


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

By morning, Clark knew for certain that his strength and invulnerability were returning. The injuries of the past couple of days had healed, not leaving the faintest mark. He barely noticed the early morning chill, and wasn't tired in spite of spending half the night keeping watch while Lois slept. His vision and hearing weren't yet as sharp as when he was at full strength, but he could hear well enough to hear the Careers talking on the other side of the lake, though he couldn't make out what they were saying. Enough of his X-ray vision had returned that he could make out the indistinct forms of squirrels in an underground burrow, and when he pulled off his glasses and pretended to rub his eyes tiredly, he focused his heat vision on his hand and felt the warm beams. His heat vision wasn't powerful enough yet to set anything on fire, but it was definitely returning.

Clark had slept while Lois kept watch for the first half of the night, but after screams and laughter had sounded from the east end of the lake, followed by two cannon booms, they had both taken shelter inside the cave, weapons at the ready, in case the Careers came their way. After an hour, when only the normal sounds of the night could be heard and there was no sign of the flashlight beam, a drowsy Lois had lain down to sleep while Clark took her place at the mouth of the cave.

He'd had plenty of time to think while keeping watch. The shifting patterns of the stars — sometimes resembling actual constellations, other times forming a variety of distinct shapes that left no doubt that they weren't natural — had reminded Clark of how helpless he was against the Capitol. Once his strange abilities returned, he could easily take care of himself, even if he couldn't escape from the arena. He could easily hunt down and kill every remaining tribute — it wouldn't take more than a few minutes, at most. Then, when he was declared victor and the hovercraft came to take him back to the Capitol, he could destroy it and fly away into the wilderness. No one could stop him.

If he did those things, he would be fine — physically, though his conscience would never let him forget what he'd done. Not only would he have the blood of nine other tributes on his hands — and he really couldn't even think of doing that to Lois — as well as whoever was on the hovercraft, but the Capitol's retaliation against those he cared about would be swift. His parents, his friends, the Rasens … all of them would suffer for what he had done. Haver and Matilda, though not his favorite people, would also suffer, as would Matilda's husband, Sid. Even the Capitolites who had spent time with him while he was preparing for the Games might suffer. Marcius was a fool, but he was stupid, not evil. Rosaline had a husband and three children. His prep team, despite how uncomfortable they had made him feel, didn't deserve to be punished, either, and neither did the Avoxes who had served him in the Training Center.

Even if the way had been clear for him to fly out of the arena, rescuing some of the tributes as he went, where could he have taken them? If he returned them to their homes, they would be punished for escaping the arena, as would their loved ones. If he took them into the wilderness, how would they survive? Few knew any more about wilderness survival than the little they had learned in the Training Center. In addition, it was already the middle of August. Winter would be coming soon to most of Panem, and those who didn't have shelter and sufficient food stores would die.

For him, it didn't matter — he could eat anything, drink any water, and sleep anywhere. The cold didn't bother him, nor did the heat. The sunlight nourished him, rather than burning him. Storms were no threat to him, nor were predators.

The same couldn't be said for his fellow tributes. The odds of their survival in the wilderness were low — and those odds would be even lower if he brought them back to their home districts. He was the strongest, most physically powerful person in all of Panem — but he was helpless to save the remaining tributes. If he saved them, everyone they cared about would die, and the thousands of people in their districts would suffer as the Capitol cracked down on them in retaliation for his efforts to save those few.

He could fight back against the Capitol, but he couldn't be everywhere at once, couldn't detect every possible threat. He had no desire to kill anyone — not Capitolites, not Peacekeepers, not the staunchest supporters of the Hunger Games. Many, perhaps most, were innocent of any wrongdoing under the law, and even if they weren't, who was he to decide? What gave him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner? If he chose to raise himself above everyone else, to decide who would live and who would die, he would be no better than those who sent children into an arena to die for the Capitol's entertainment.

There was more to the Capitol's power than mere brute force — if that had been all there was, the far greater numbers of people in the districts could have overthrown the Capitol long before. What was far more powerful than Peacekeepers was the ability of those in power to make everyone else feel helpless. The Capitol controlled how much food and other basic necessities of life were available to the people in the districts — and whether they could afford what there was. It controlled what people learned in school — and what resources were available for learning outside of school.

The Hunger Games were an important part of the control the Capitol wielded over the districts. It showed the people of the districts that their children could be taken from them at random and sent away to die. It also divided the districts — people were allowed almost no contact with those in other districts, so most of what they knew of them was what they saw in the days leading up to the Games and in the Games themselves. When people saw their beloved children killed by children from other districts, it hardened their hearts against those who lived outside of theirs, making it far harder to sympathize with them and perhaps join with them against a common enemy.

The Games divided those within the districts, too. Those who were poor and hungry had to allow their children to take the tesserae, the meager rations of grain and oil given by the Capitol in exchange for more entries in the Reaping bowl, in order to keep the family alive — and as such, the children of poor families were far more likely to be put into the Games and killed. This engendered resentment against those who were more well-off, whose children were more likely to live to grow up.

The Capitol was presented to the districts as a place of wealth, luxury, and ease, in great contrast to the hard work and privations of even the most well-off districts. It was a place that victors, unlike most district residents, had access to, and the portrayal of the city as a desirable place full of beautiful, well-off people gave even the more restive districts a reason to support the Hunger Games — their victors might bring home some of that luxury and that excitement.

The propaganda hid much of the darker side of Capitol life — the heavy debt that so many accrued trying to keep up with the latest fashions and technology — all of which were heavily promoted to the point that they were considered necessities by many, the homeless who lived in the shadows of the city, and who were periodically rounded up and made to disappear by those who didn't want their presence to remind them that not everything was perfect, and the lives of the Avoxes, who were no more than slaves and often subject to abuses against which they had no recourse.

The Capitolites had plenty of food — so much that a sizable proportion was thrown away on a daily basis, even though the districts that produced the food faced starvation and all too frequently had the pitiful amount rationed to them reduced.

The people of the Capitol were kept distracted by the many superficial entertainments available to them — the ever-changing fashions, celebrity and society gossip, sitcoms that favored sex and cheap laughs over substance, and reality television shows that bore little actual resemblance to reality — even the Hunger Games were played out against unnatural disasters, Capitol-designed muttations, and manipulations that pushed tributes into fights and often favored particular tributes who had caught the attention of the Capitol elite. The Capitol had a prolific film industry, but the films were heavily censored to make sure no seditious messages made it to the eyes and ears of Capitolites or to the privileged few in the Capitol's favorite districts who were able to see some of the films.

The Capitolites had access to more formal education than most district residents, but even there the information was heavily controlled. Potentially thought-provoking lectures and courses at the two universities were marginalized — when permitted at all — and the main focus was on degrees that would allow the students to have careers that would earn them enough to buy the luxuries that so many Capitolites viewed as necessities. The few people from the districts who were permitted to attend the universities were restricted to courses pertaining to the trade they were learning — mostly technology or medicine — and were seldom allowed to leave campus or interact with students from the Capitol.

Clark knew little about politics, or about propaganda or the way that access to the basic necessities of life could be used to control people. He had been raised in an impoverished outer district and given a Capitol-approved education. When he had shown a talent for writing, a few of his teachers and his parents had encouraged him to continue, but his experience had been limited and his mind that of a child. As he had grown older, he had begun to understand some things more, but his world had still been limited. Even after he had learned to fly, he had been able to travel only at night to avoid being seen, and then, only two and a half months after gaining this remarkable ability, he had been Reaped and sent away to fight in the arena.

Though Clark knew the difference between right and wrong and had been given a strong moral compass by his parents, he was young and unsure of himself. He had been thrust, against his will, into a situation that demanded he give up all traces of compassion and all sense of right and wrong if he wanted to stay alive. He didn't want to harm anyone, directly or indirectly, but even the strongest person in Panem had little power against a system that would destroy everyone associated with him if he dared to step out of line.

*****

By the time Lois awoke it was mid-morning. Clark was in a nearby pine tree, knocking down green cones with a stick so they could dry them by the fire and extract the seeds to eat. His vision and hearing had returned to their full strength, so he could detect any threats coming their way in plenty of time to get down and retreat to the cave to protect Lois.

It took Lois a few minutes to locate him. "Why didn't you wake me?" she asked.

"You looked like you needed the sleep," Clark replied, climbing down from the tree. "There wasn't any danger, anyway."

"Aren't you tired?"

"I'm fine," Clark told her. "On the farm, everyone is an early riser."

"But you've been on guard since the middle of the night!"

Clark just shrugged. He didn't know how late it had been when he had taken over guard duty, since he couldn't see the real stars, but he didn't feel tired in the slightest.

"Can I borrow the knife?" he asked, changing the subject.

Lois looked at him oddly, but handed it to him. "What do you need it for?"

"There are a couple of grooslings in the clearing up the hill. I saw them from the tree."

"And … you're going to hunt them with the knife?" Lois had paid more attention to Clark during the training days than she would admit, but she had never seen him practice throwing knives, and the birds weren't likely to stay still while he crept up on them.

Clark shook his head, walking over to a tree with a branch in roughly the shape he was looking for. After climbing up to it, he cut the branch and brought it back down, then began to strip it of bark and needles. He used the knife to shape it slightly until he had a usable throwing stick. It wasn't as good as one of the more finely crafted ones used in District 9, but it would have to do.

Lois was still eyeing him skeptically. "You're going to beat them with a stick?"

"It's a throwing stick," Clark explained, "and I hope I'll be able to hit one with it. We use these in the fields in District 9, where grooslings are pests. If you miss, it comes back to you so that you can try again."

The groosling was a muttation, developed in a Capitol laboratory, a genetically engineered combination of the grouse and the turkey. Unlike most muttations, which had been developed as weapons, the groosling had been developed as a delicacy for Capitol gourmets. It had soon proven to mature quickly and reproduce rapidly, and had been easy to raise throughout the meat-producing areas of District 10, lowering the price and becoming a common food in the Capitol. Then, as often happened, a few grooslings had escaped into the wild and proven to be highly adaptable. Not long after that, they had become pests in the farming districts.

In District 9, flocks of grooslings descended upon the fields in the spring to eat the freshly planted seeds, then returned in the fall to eat the grain harvest. Though hunting was technically illegal throughout Panem, an exception was made for animals that threatened crops, so the farmers of District 9 hunted them en masse in the spring and fall. Guns were illegal, except for those owned by the Peacekeepers, as were bows and arrows, but throwing sticks were classed as farm implements and were permitted in much the same way that traps for rodents were permitted.

Technically, the pest animals killed by farmers were supposed to be turned over to the Peacekeepers for disposal, ostensibly to keep disease from spreading, but in actual practice they were usually eaten by the farm families or sold in town when they were particularly abundant. Rabbits and squirrels were also hunted under the farm pest exception, and most Peacekeepers in District 9 turned a blind eye to the way the farmers kept the pests they hunted for their tables — in exchange for a few of the tastier specimens.

During Clark's childhood, he and his parents had eaten most of the animals they caught in the fields. When times were particularly hard, even the vermin caught in traps in the house and barn had wound up on the dinner table, as had snakes, snails, and a variety of insects. Food was food, and squeamishness was soon forgotten in the face of hunger.

Now, after making sure that it was still safe, Clark crept up the hill in pursuit of the grooslings. One would be more than enough for the two of them — they were good-sized birds. Grooslings couldn't fly, but they had a knack for escaping predators by crashing through the brush and grass and changing direction abruptly. The easiest way to catch them was to sneak up on them and hit them with the throwing stick before they realized what was happening.

When he reached the clearing, Clark stood perfectly still, waiting for the right moment. He had good aim, but that wouldn't help him if the groosling was no longer where he aimed the stick, and rushing forward at lightning speed to change the throwing stick's trajectory or simply to grab the bird would reveal things about him he didn't want anyone to know. Therefore, he had to wait until the time was right.

The smaller of the two birds was pecking at some seeds when Clark took aim and flung the stick at it. His aim was true; the groosling fell over without a squawk, never knowing what hit it.

The other groosling squawked in alarm, crashing through the nearby brush and disappearing into the woods. Clark ignored it. He had what he needed, and he had never seen the point in killing an animal unnecessarily.

By the time Clark returned to the cave, Lois had collected some wood and was using a long stick to push the pitch-covered green pinecones into a pile near the fire. Grabbing her streamer sticks, she whirled around in alarm when she heard Clark's footsteps, then relaxed when she saw who it was and lowered the sticks.

Clark held up the groosling. "This should be enough for a few meals." He sat down on a low boulder and started plucking the feathers.

Lois stared at him. "So, that's how you get the feathers off."

Clark looked at her strangely. "You didn't know that?"

"No. In District 3, we develop technology, not … slaughter innocent birds."

"Maybe I'll just keep it for myself." Clark chuckled a little at her indignant expression. "Relax. I'm just teasing you." He pulled out another handful of feathers. "What would you have done if you'd killed that rabbit yourself? Do you have any idea how to clean game?"

"I would have figured it out." Lois raised her chin resolutely. "I want to help. Pulling feathers doesn't look so hard."

Clark scooted over on the boulder, giving Lois a place to sit and putting the groosling between them. After showing her what to do, they worked in a silence for a few minutes.

When the bird was nearly clean, Lois glanced at Clark slyly. Then she scooped up a handful of feathers and flung them at him.

Clark was surprised for a moment, then picked up his own handful of feathers and threw them back at her. For a few minutes, the bird sat forgotten on the boulder as they flung the feathers at each other, laughing like children as they forgot for that brief time what had happened in the past few days and the fact that their lives were still in danger.

Suddenly, Clark stopped their play because he noticed something — a mountain lion crouching in the low growth about fifty feet away. It moved into an attack posture when it saw him watching.

"Lois, we've got company. Get behind me," Clark instructed in a low voice, gesturing in the direction of the mountain lion. He looked at the animal, wondering why he hadn't noticed its approach. Either his senses weren't back as fully as he thought — something he doubted — or he'd been distracted by Lois.

Suddenly, the cat charged. Clark moved quickly, running toward the animal in hopes of scaring it off, but to no avail. Though neither tribute knew it, this was the animal that had taken down the District 4 boy the first night in the arena. It wasn't muttation, but rather a mother cat with a cub who had been trapped in the arena when the force field had gone up three weeks before the Games began.

The mountain lion and one of her cubs had been trapped inside by the force field. The second cub had tried to run through the force field after them and had been electrocuted. Though the force field used by the Capitol to prevent tributes from jumping off the Training Center building simply gave them a mild jolt and bounced them back onto the roof, the force field surrounding the arena was deadly, with such a strong electrical charge that any person or animal that touched it would be instantly electrocuted.

After the death of one of her cubs, the mountain lion had taken the remaining cub and fled, seeking a safer place as a den. Inside the arena, however, there was little in the way of large prey, and what little there was had soon been killed and eaten, or had grown extremely wary, leaving the cat and her cub hungry. The smaller prey, while more numerous, had also grown wary of the mountain lion, and was therefore increasingly difficult to catch.

On the first night of the Hunger Games, the mountain lion had just returned to her den with a squirrel she had caught when the Career tributes had blundered into her space. The mother cat had leaped to the defense of her cub, and in doing so, had caught her first substantial prey in ten days. Up until then, the cat had never seen a human and thus had never learned to avoid them.

There had been no time to feed on her catch, however, as the hovercraft had quickly descended and picked up the body of the District 4 boy, leaving the angry, frustrated mountain lion as hungry as ever.

Now, less than two days later, the cat had set her sights on two unwary humans. When one had caught sight of her, she had immediately gone into attack mode, charging at them. When one ran at her, she was startled, but undeterred. Having grown so thin that her ribs showed, and with a hungry cub still nursing, the odd behavior of her potential prey wasn't enough to make her back down.

Clark knew that the predator couldn't hurt him — though the animal was likely to hurt itself by attacking him. When he picked up on the scent of milk, he knew that the mountain lion had young somewhere, young which would be orphaned and left to die if something happened to the mother.

When the cat leaped at him, he allowed it to knock him over, curling into a semi-fetal position as he fell. This prevented the injury the animal would have incurred by simply slamming into him. He grabbed the mountain lion's left foreleg, keeping it from clawing at his face, while the claws of the right paw shredded the left shoulders of his jacket and shirt, but didn't injure him. When the mountain lion tried to bite his face, he grabbed her head, gently enough that he didn't injure her but firmly enough that she couldn't get loose, and used his legs to knock her off him, letting go of her head as he did so.

Tail switching furiously, the cat tried again, but was surprised by a painful blow to her back. Lois had joined the fray.

The first attack had happened so quickly that Lois hadn't had time to do more than shout Clark's name and run a few steps in his direction. When she had seen a good-sized fallen branch on the ground, she had grabbed it and rushed in the direction of the embattled cat and tribute. She had other weapons — the knife and the streamer sticks — but the mountain lion's claws and teeth were formidable weapons, not ones she wanted to face in close combat if she could avoid it.

As Clark scrambled to his feet, Lois rushed forward, holding the branch like a club. She brought it down on the mountain lion's back, then darted backwards as the animal turned on her. Clark grabbed the cat's tail, giving Lois a chance to move in again, this time hitting the animal over the head with the branch.

Seeing that the cat now desired nothing so much as escape, Clark let go of the mountain lion's tail as she turned and ran up the hill. Though the cat was hungry, she'd broken off two claws and fractured the toes they had been attached to on one human, and the other had delivered some unexpectedly painful blows to her back and head. The risks were greater than the potential reward, so she sought easier prey elsewhere.

Lois dropped the branch after the mountain lion had disappeared into the forest and rushed to Clark's side. "Clark! Are you okay?"

Clark examined the shredded fabric of his shirt and jacket for a moment before replying. "I'm fine. I think I'll have a few more bruises, but the claws must have gotten caught in my clothes. It didn't scratch me." Discreetly, he dropped the two broken claws on the ground, where they would lay hidden amongst the fallen pine cones and needles.

"Maybe we should have thrown the groosling at it," Lois said, looking at the plucked bird.

Clark shook his head. "It would have come back for more." He was familiar with predators; they occasionally slipped through breaks in the electric fence surrounding District 9 or tunneled under it. During his nighttime wanderings, he had come across a few predators trying to attack farm animals; he usually dealt with them by grabbing them and carrying them to the fence, then jumping over it and leaving the unhurt but bewildered animals there before they had a chance to make a sound.

He was more shaken by the incident than he wanted to admit. No matter how good his eyesight and hearing were, they were useless if he didn't pay attention to what was going on around him. This time it had been a mountain lion; next time it might be the Career pack. He had to be more attentive if he wanted to keep Lois and himself alive.

He didn't say anything to Lois, though. How could he explain that he should have heard the quiet predator creeping up on them? They were alive and unhurt, and the cat would survive, too, so her young wouldn't be left orphaned. The only thing he could do was keep his ears open, even if it meant hearing sounds better left unheard — like the screams of tributes he couldn't help without revealing his secret.

Lois kept looking in the direction the mountain lion had gone, afraid that it would come back. Finally, she said, "Well … I got some wood, so we can build up the fire and cook this groosling. We can get the nuts out of the pine cones, too …"

"I'll cook it," Clark told her, remembering the previous morning and not eager for a repeat.

"I want to help," Lois told him. "I learned to pluck the feathers, so I can learn to cook it, too." She glared at Clark when he still looked skeptical.

"All right." Clark finally relented. "First, we need to set up a couple of forked sticks on either side of the fire, which will hold the stick the bird is skewered on …"

*****

Some time later, Lois and Clark sat outside the cave, eating pine nuts and pieces of groosling. Lois held up a few pine nuts and turned to Clark.

"If I had some chocolate … and a few other ingredients … I could really make something with these."

"Like what?"

"Like chocolate pine nut cookies. I may not know much about cooking over an open fire, but I make some of the best chocolate cookies around. Claude was probably telling the truth when he said he liked them."

"They sound good."

"They are." Lois cracked another pine nut shell between her teeth. "These aren't bad, but still …" She shook her head, then shrugged. "We don't have an oven here, anyway. If I go home, I'll be able to bake as many cookies as I want, and —"

"I hope you do go home," Clark said, stopping when Lois looked at him uncomfortably. "What?"

"Clark, if I go home — it means that you won't. Not alive, anyway."

They fell silent after that, realizing the truth of Lois's words. No matter how good a team they made, only one of them could survive the Hunger Games.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

At dawn the next day, Clark was sitting in front of the cave, keeping watch while Lois slept inside. The night had been largely uneventful except for the angry shouts of the Career pack, who had treed another tribute but had been unable to catch them. The angry, frustrated shouts of the Careers had reminded Clark of nothing so much as a pack of dogs who had treed a cat, only to discover that they couldn't get it to come down. When the treed tribute had done something to make the Careers scream and curse in disgust, Clark's imagination had filled in the blanks. He had laughed, his hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound. He could never have explained to Lois that he could hear something happening clear across the arena.

Though Lois had kept watch first, Clark had not slept at all the night before. Now that his extraordinary abilities were back, he feared that he might float if he fell asleep, and there was no way to secure himself in the cave, so instead, he had lain awake, turned away from the single camera in the cave so that no one would see that his eyes were open, and he had listened. When Lois had grown sleepy, he'd taken her place, watching the strange star patterns projected by the Capitol hovercraft and listening to the night sounds.

No tributes had died in the past day. The projection screen had shown the two tributes who had died on the second night in the arena, the girl from District 4 and the boy from District 5. The Career pack was half its original size, and there were only ten tributes left in total. Those ten were the cagiest, and Capitol was now looking forward to what was, for them, the most exciting part of the Games.

The camaraderie that had been growing between Lois and Clark had largely vanished, leaving them both quiet and uneasy. Clark had found himself scanning the arena for any sign of Kryptonite, not so much because of fear for his own life this time, but because he knew that without it Lois had no chance. They worked well together, fought well together — and might wind up being the last tributes alive. If so, Lois had no chance against him — without Kryptonite, he couldn't be killed, at least not easily. Clark supposed that if he went long enough without food, water, and rest, he might die, but he wasn't sure about that, and it would take him considerably longer to die from starvation, dehydration, or exhaustion than it would take Lois.

If there was Kryptonite available, Lois would stand a better chance against him. With Clark weakened by the radiation, she would have a fair chance of winning that last fight — or of simply outlasting him.

Clark didn't think that he would be able to bring himself to fight her to the death, though, no matter how evenly matched they might become. If it came to that, he would put up enough of a struggle to make it look real, in order to protect his family and friends, but he would let Lois win — if she was willing to fight him. Lois wasn't a killer, and she would undoubtedly feel even worse about killing him than she had Platinum.

It might not come to that, though. If one of the other tributes found a piece of Kryptonite and Clark was exposed to it, he could be taken out as easily as anyone else, and although Clark was determined to protect Lois, it was entirely possible that someone would get to her before he could stop them, or an animal could attack her, or she would get sick or injured. There were so many things he just couldn't prevent, no matter how much he wished he could.

Clark was somewhat surprised at the discovery that he would be willing to sacrifice his life to save someone else's. He had always cared about others, and had done what he could to help them, but there had never been any real risk to himself. Now he was in a situation where only one person could survive, and though Clark didn't want to die, he had come to realize that he would give up his life for the sake of someone he cared about. It came as a startling revelation that even after this short a time he felt that way about Lois.

Thus far, however, he hadn't seen or felt any sign of Kryptonite. Platinum's pendant was the only piece he had seen in the arena, and it was gone, taken from the arena with her body. Clark intended to keep looking, just in case, because if it came down to him and Lois and he was at full strength, there was no way she could defeat him, and the Capitol would not allow the Games to go on indefinitely. If it came down to the two of them, and they refused to fight, the Gamemakers would force the issue, and there was no telling what the consequences would be.

*****

The fourth day in the arena was quiet. No cannons sounded, in spite of the efforts of the Careers to hunt down their competitors. Of the ten tributes remaining, five were scattered alone throughout the arena, hiding as best they could and trying to find food and safe water.

The boy from District 7 had found a place to hide beside a spring, but the water had turned out to be bad; the resulting sickness was slowly killing him. The girl from District 6 had paid little attention to the edible plants and insects stations, and had been unsuccessful at hunting and fishing. She had been unhealthily thin to begin with, like many tributes, and was now on the verge of starvation.

The other three solitary tributes were doing better, as were the Career pack and Lois and Clark, but all of them were uneasy. When things grew quiet in the arena, the Gamemakers liked to liven things up by springing traps, usually consisting of muttations or unnatural disasters. Not even the most arrogant of the Career tributes wanted to face an arena trap.

The fifth day began with two booms from the cannon about fifteen minutes apart. The District 7 boy had succumbed to his illness, and not long after that, the District 6 girl, who was weak from hunger, had fallen into the river while trying to catch a fish, struck her head on a rock, and drowned.

The first cannon startled Clark, who was on watch, out of a light doze. He hadn't slept in two nights, and it was starting to show. He heard Lois stirring in the cave, awakened by the sound. A moment later, she stepped out of the cave and sat beside him.

Clark glanced at her, then back at the sunrise. "Nine left," he murmured. Those fifteen deaths tore at him — he wished he could have helped them. Most hadn't had a choice about being in the arena, and even those who had volunteered hadn't deserved to die. He didn't understand why the Career tributes had volunteered for a game that would almost certainly cost them their lives, but ultimately, no matter what their reasons were, they were no more than momentary entertainment for the bored Capitolites, who thrilled at their deaths and then forgot about them.

A few minutes later, when the second cannon boomed, Lois spoke up. "Eight left," she told Clark quietly. "They'll be interviewing our families today. 'Aren't you proud that your daughter outlived sixteen other kids? Wasn't it exciting when she killed that girl?'" Her voice was sarcastic. "I don't see why they interview the families of the final eight — seven of us are still going to die. Why not wait until the Games are over and just interview the family of the victor? Why get people's hopes up?"

"Lois …" Clark warned, looking around uneasily and speaking in a hushed tone. "Such words could be seen as rebellion."

Lois acted like he hadn't spoken. "They'll ask about Claude, too. 'Did you hear what he did to your daughter? Are you glad he's dead? Wouldn't it have been even better if she'd killed him?'" Lois clenched her fists angrily. "Well, I'm _not_ glad he's dead! Stealing my project and lying about me isn't a reason to be happy that he's dead. I would have been happy if he'd been forced to admit to what he did. Public humiliation would have been good enough!"

Clark put a hand on her shoulder. "I don't like it, either," he whispered. "We have to be careful what we say, though — they'll be in our districts today, and we don't want to give them a reason to retaliate."

Lois turned to glare at him, but kept her voice low enough that it wouldn't be picked up by the microphones. "You sound like my teachers. They were always telling me just to write what I was told to write and nothing else. After a field trip to the factories, we were just supposed to write about what the factories make, not the fact that while we were there a worker lost a hand while operating a machine with insufficient safeguards. When we came back to school in the fall and wrote an essay about the Reaping, we were supposed to write about the Capitol's benevolence, not that the kids of victors get chosen so often that it can't be a coincidence. Well, Farmboy, some things need to be said, no matter how angry it makes the ones in power!"

With that, Lois stood, turned on her heel, and stalked down the hill in the direction of the lake, leaving Clark staring after her, her words echoing in his mind.

*****

That afternoon, Lois and Clark were foraging near the top of the ridge, keeping their distance from the force field that lay along the crest of the hill. Clark could hear the faint buzzing sound it made, but what made the force field obvious to both of them were the dead birds lying just below the edge of the ridge on both sides. The birds had attempted to go through the invisible barrier and had been electrocuted, their singed feathers giving mute evidence of what had happened.

The force field, although impenetrable, was harmless to Clark, though hitting it would give away his secret, but touching it would be fatal to Lois. As such, Clark made sure to stay between Lois and the force field, occasionally throwing small rocks and sticks at it to show where it was and give him a valid reason for his knowing its location.

They weren't the only ones foraging on the hillside. Clark could hear the occasional footsteps of two other tributes, but one was far below them and the other was some distance to the west. So long as they were far away, there was no need to hide from them.

What Clark didn't realize was that there was a third tribute near the ridge. The boy from District 8 had discovered an electrocuted quail near a wild cherry tree heavy with ripe fruit. After enjoying his first full meal since entering the arena, the boy had settled into the tall, dry grass at the base of the tree and fallen asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of Lois and Clark approaching, their voices carrying farther than they realized. Alarmed, the District 8 boy drew his knife, crouching in the grass and hoping not to be noticed.

Clark heard the rustling sound from the dry grass just ahead of them and came to an abrupt halt. Lois almost bumped into him before she realized that he'd stopped.

"What is it?" Lois asked quietly, her hands automatically dropping to the streamer sticks that swung from her belt as she stepped around Clark to get a better look.

"There's someone there," Clark said in a low voice. "I think we need to —"

At this, the boy leaped from his hiding place, slashing the knife in front of him. His eyes were wide and scared. "Stay away from me!" he warned, his voice cracking and quavering.

As he jumped into view, Lois pulled her streamer sticks free, but didn't advance, taking up a defensive stance, feet about two feet apart and the left slightly in advance with the sticks crossed in front of her chest.

Stepping between them, Clark put up his hands, palms forward to indicate that he was unarmed. "We're not going to hurt you," Clark told him, but the boy was too frightened to listen.

He looked back and forth between Lois and Clark. "Get back!" he yelled, darting towards the top of the ridge.

"Wait!" Clark shouted, rushing towards the boy when he realized how close he was to the force field. "Don't —"

By the time Clark had taken two paces in his direction, it was already too late. The District 8 boy's knife touched the force field, immediately conducting electricity into his body. He didn't make a sound as it coursed through him, killing him in seconds and igniting the dry grass at his feet.

A cannon boomed just before the boy fell to the ground. The flames, driven by the gusty afternoon wind, quickly set the boy's clothing afire, then moved swiftly through the grass and into the summer-dry chaparral.

"Clark! Run!" As Lois turned to take her own advice, she stuffed the rabbit hide thongs under her belt so that the streamer sticks would hang down at the ready again, freeing her hands.

Clark turned and ran in Lois's direction, covering the short distance between them in seconds. They raced away from the rapidly spreading fire, running along the ridgeline and then downhill, slipping and skidding on the loose rocks and dirt, creating a miniature landslide as they moved.

The fire spread quickly, fueled by decades' worth of thick, highly flammable plant growth. When it reached the pines covering the hillside, it rushed through the treetops, igniting dead branches and needles and engulfing dead and dying trees. The crackling of the burning trees and pine needles and the roar of the flames were almost deafening by this time.

Even with the gusts of wind, made stronger as the fire produced its own small areas of weather with almost tornadic winds, the flames were spreading much faster than they could have naturally. The Gamemakers, upon seeing the burgeoning flames, had decided to add to the excitement by exploding small incendiary packs, hidden under the bark of some of the trees, that contributed to the fire's spread and made it far more dangerous for the fleeing tributes.

As Lois and Clark ran down the slope, heading in the direction of the lake, an incendiary pack exploded in a tree about twenty feet away. The fluid was quickly ignited by flying sparks, and the flames rapidly climbed into the branches of the tree.

A terrified, agonized scream came from the tribute who had been halfway down the tree when it caught fire. Engulfed in flames, the District 5 girl plummeted the remaining forty feet to the ground, still writhing in agony from her burns and the injuries sustained in the fall after she landed.

Clark froze, horrified at the sight, torn between the need to get Lois to safety and the desire to help the badly injured girl. He knew there was nothing he could do to save the other tributes, but that didn't stop him from wanting to help them.

Even as he started to break away from Lois, the girl stopped moving and a cannon sounded. As though reading his mind, Lois grabbed his arm and shouted to make herself heard by him. "There was nothing you could have done for her! All we can do now is try to make it to the lake and save ourselves!"

The fire was spreading through the undergrowth, climbing more trees and being fueled by more incendiary packs. As they continued downhill with Lois coughing from the smoke, the mountain lion suddenly raced past them, her cub dangling by the scruff of its neck from her mouth. The tip of the mother cat's tail was aflame.

Realizing that an extra gust of wind in the chaos wasn't likely to be noticed, Clark sent a burst of super breath in the mountain lion's direction, putting out the fire on her tail and temporarily numbing the pain of the burn. Then he blew some of the thick, choking smoke out of Lois's way — not enough that any of the surviving cameras would pick up on the sudden thinning of the smoke, but enough that Lois could breathe easier.

As they neared the bottom of the slope, a sudden strong gust of wind sent the flames over their heads and into the branches of a large, half-dead pine. One of the branches, already near the breaking point, snapped off, plunging towards the two fleeing tributes.

Clark heard the crack of the breaking branch and looked up to see it falling towards them. He pushed Lois out of its path, feeling the tip of the flaming piece of wood graze his back. It didn't hurt him at all, but it did set his jacket on fire. Clark dropped to the ground and rolled over on his back, smothering the flames. He was quick enough that his shirt hadn't caught fire, thereby eliminating the need to excuse the fact that his skin wasn't affected.

Lois kicked the flaming branch farther away and held out her hand to Clark. He took it, getting quickly to his feet. He turned so that Lois could see his back, and once she confirmed that the flames were out, he urged Lois on. They were less than three hundred feet from the lake now.

Lois and Clark were only twenty-five feet from the lake when Clark's superhearing picked up the sound of the sap boiling inside a large, well-watered tree about ten feet behind them. Just before the tree exploded, Clark got behind Lois, wrapping his arms around her and protecting her from the explosion with his body. Then he used the force of the explosion to cover his short flight into the lake, where he set them down with a splash.

The fire continued to burn as they made their way into deeper water. As the late afternoon wind changed direction, there was a scream that only Clark could hear, followed by another cannon boom.

After that, there was only the sound of the fire crackling and the voices of the Careers echoing across the lake from the relative safety of the Cornucopia. At the end of the fifth day in the arena, only five tributes were left.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

The next three days passed with no confrontations between the surviving tributes. The Careers spent hours trying to hunt down their competitors, but much to their frustration, Lois and Clark managed to evade them. Even when, on the second night after the fire, they found the cave that their rivals had been sleeping in, there was no sign of them. They didn't know how they were able to do it, but the tributes from Districts 3 and 9 were always one step ahead of them.

It was Clark's superhearing and X-ray vision that made the difference. He could use these abilities without fear of detection so long as he gave no indication that he and Lois were leaving because he'd heard or seen something he should not have been able to detect.

The angry, frustrated Careers had taken to quarreling amongst themselves. Lumen and Lysander had come to blows, but they weren't yet ready to break the alliance — not as long as Lois and Clark were still alive.

For the pair of non-Career tributes, something far more insidious than the Careers was fast becoming a concern — starvation. Though a person could last several weeks without food under the right circumstances, conditions in the arena were becoming increasingly harsh, especially since the fire. There was little food available — most of the plants, except for those in the area controlled by the Careers, had burned, and much of the wildlife had been killed by the smoke and flames. What few plants were left were mostly inedible, and though fish were still abundant in the lake, they were nearly impossible to catch without fishing equipment, which Lois and Clark didn't have.

Hunger wasn't nearly as much of a problem for Clark as it was for Lois. He needed far less food than she did, as the sunlight provided much of the energy he needed, and what they'd been able to find in the arena before the fire had been sufficient for him.

For Lois, the lack of food was quickly becoming a problem. She had been slender to begin with, though not as thin as many tributes, since her family had always been able to afford sufficient food. In the arena, however, the amount of food she and Clark had been able to obtain hadn't been quite enough, especially since it took so much effort to get it.

Even before the fire, Clark had made sure that Lois got more of the food than he did, especially after he recovered from the Kryptonite exposure; now he made sure that she got almost all of the little food they were able to find, eating just enough to not raise suspicion. He was hungry, but it would take a long time for him to starve.

To make matters worse, the Gamemakers seemed to be manipulating the temperature. Up until the day after the fire, the weather had been as expected for summer in the mountains. After that, however, it began to grow colder, much colder than could be accounted for by the advancing season. It was still August, and judging by what Lois and Clark could see through the force field, they weren't at a particularly high elevation — indeed, there was every indication that it was still summer _outside_ the arena.

Inside the arena, though, it grew cold enough at night that there was ice on the edge of the lake, and even during the day the temperature did not get as high as it had been before. With most of the wood burned by the wildfire, it was hard to get enough for even a small fire in the cave to warm it at night.

The cold didn't affect Clark, but it did bother Lois, so he gave his jacket to Lois to keep her warm while she slept at night. Then he sat in the mouth of the cave to keep watch, curled up as though to conserve body heat. They were in desperate need of sponsors to send them food and perhaps warm clothing, but they received nothing. Their high scores and their extended survival in the arena should have _guaranteed_ them sponsors, but none of the silver parachutes containing food and other sponsor gifts were forthcoming.

Clark could only speculate that they were being punished — perhaps for Lois's angry rant when she had realized that only eight tributes were left, or perhaps for Clark's actions at the tribute interviews. The Careers had received sponsor gifts — Clark had heard the chimes when the parachutes had dropped on the other side of the lake. For himself and Lois, who desperately needed supplies, there wasn't anything.

Lois was losing weight rapidly, growing dangerously thin — the human body burned a lot of calories just to keep warm. The lack of food, the exertion, and the growing chill were all serving to push her to the edge of starvation. If she went much longer with only the very small amount of food they were able to find, she would grow dangerously weak — perhaps even die from hunger.

There was still plenty of food in the Cornucopia, though. Clark had used his X-ray vision to look inside it more than once. Food, blankets, first aid supplies, weapons … the Careers had far more than they would ever need. Clark was uneasy at the idea of walking into the Careers' camp and raiding their supplies, but there was no food left where he and Lois were, and a quick raid while the Careers were occupied elsewhere was safer than trying to forage in the area controlled by them.

*****

Just before sunrise on the fourth day following the fire, Lois and Clark made their move. The Careers had left earlier, seeking to find and kill their remaining rivals while they were sleeping. Clark had heard their plans and awakened Lois, explaining that he had seen them leaving with the flashlight.

Though she was growing weak from hunger, Lois was still capable of assisting in the raid, especially with the promise of food if they were successful. Quietly, they made their way around the lake. When they drew near to the Cornucopia, just after sunrise, they crouched in the brush, waiting and listening to make sure that the Careers were, in fact, absent.

When Clark was sure no one was at the Cornucopia, he signaled to Lois and they hurried forward, slipping into the large metal horn and stocking up on food and other supplies. Clark grabbed a sack that had once held apples and filled it with canned and dried food. He found an extra knife and slipped it into his belt, then put a box of matches in his pocket. Lois took an empty crate, lined it with a blanket, and filled it with bags of dried beef, fruit, and crackers. She also discovered a small stash of fresh food that the Careers had foraged for — a plastic bag containing two fish and another containing a couple of handfuls of berries.

Just as they were about to leave, Clark heard something outside the Cornucopia. He froze, gesturing to Lois to stay still, and listened closer, hearing it again — the sound of someone whistling, followed by someone else responding in kind from another direction. The Careers were trying to surround them. The whistles were followed by the sound of people running, then laughter.

"I told you they'd show up!" one of the Careers shouted.

"Sure … it only took them two days. Not much of a trap," another responded.

"Better than anything you came up with!"

Clark looked at Lois in alarm, realizing from her expression that she could now hear the voices, too. "The Careers!" he whispered. "They were expecting us!"

"If we get cornered in here, we're dead!" Lois answered in kind. She peeked out of the Cornucopia. Realizing that stealth was no longer required, she shouted, "Come on! Run!"

Lois darted out of the Cornucopia, headed for the unburned forest that they had fled to on their first day in the arena. Clark followed her, trying to put himself between Lois and the Careers as he wondered why he hadn't been aware that the Careers had been setting a trap for them.

The Careers, realizing that their prey had figured out that they'd walked into a trap, started running faster, closing in on Lois and Clark as they ran past the launch plates and headed uphill.

Mayson tried to head Lois off, throwing a spear at her, but Lois saw the movement and lifted the crate to protect herself. The spear bounced off it harmlessly and clattered to the ground.

Lysander went after Clark. He had his sword in his hand and put on a burst of speed that would have easily caught most tributes, but Clark ran just as fast as the Career boy, matching his speed and staying just out of his reach. With his superior eyesight, he saw an animal burrow, just a hole in the ground, almost hidden by the frosty grass, and ran over it, neatly avoiding stepping in it. As Clark had hoped, Lysander wasn't so lucky. His foot caught in the hole and he pitched forward, landing flat on his face. His sword flew from his hand, landing in the grass a few feet away.

Clark ran up to Lois, urging her on. He could hear Lumen yelling at his fellow Careers, berating them for letting their quarry escape and shouting at his allies to give chase. Lysander yelled back at him, using the sort of language that would have the Capitol censors rushing to cover the words before they aired — violence was fine, but children couldn't be subjected to profanity. Clark noted that Lumen yelled at his fellow Careers, but didn't continue the pursuit alone. Could he be afraid?

There was a brief sound of clashing swords, followed by Mayson's voice shouting at the two boys to stop fighting, or their adversaries would get away. Moments later, the Careers were running uphill, following the trail of footprints in the frost and the crushed grass.

Clark was having no trouble running, but Lois soon began to slow. After several days with almost no food, she had little stamina, and what energy she did have had been largely expended already.

He took the crate from her, trying to help her keep going, but she soon had to stop, and was panting from the exertion.

Clark stopped, too, trying to give the impression that he was winded himself. They had a bit of a head start on the Careers, thanks to the quarrel between Lumen and Lysander, but not much of one.

"Lois, we have to keep going. They're still coming."

"Just … just a minute," Lois gasped, holding her side.

Clark turned his head in the direction of the Careers, realizing that they were almost upon them. For the moment, they were concealed from the Careers, although he could see them thanks to his X-ray vision. He looked around frantically, a plan forming in his mind.

"Lois, before they get to where they can see us, head downhill into the woods. Find a place to hide. I'll keep going uphill, try to lead them away and then lose them. When it's safe, I'll circle back around and find you."

Lois looked in the direction of the woods and nodded, reaching for the crate.

Clark shook his head. "You'll move faster if you're not carrying anything."

"Each of us should carry some of the supplies. That way, if something … happens … the other won't be left without food."

Clark nodded, acknowledging the wisdom of her words. He let her take the crate, then spoke softly. "Be careful."

"You, too." Lois turned and hurried off at an angle downhill while Clark headed uphill a short distance, stopping where he was sure that the approaching Careers would see him.

As soon as they spotted him, there was a shout and, as expected, they came after him. Clark let them get close, then made a gesture that he was sure would be censored by the Capitol, enraging the Career tributes further. He turned and ran uphill, moving just fast enough that they couldn't catch him.

Suddenly, Clark stopped dead in his tracks. Before him was a sharp drop. He looked over the edge and could see that the cliff was almost vertical. He turned around to retrace his path to get away from the cliff, only to see that he was facing Mayson and Lumen. Lumen was brandishing a sword, while Mayson had retrieved the spear she had thrown at Lois. It dawned on Clark that Lysander's absence meant that he had gone after Lois. He knew that he had to get away from these two and get to Lois to protect her. It was time to put to use all of that practice he had had with the gauntlet. He had become quite adept at evading the weapons in the machine. They had been blunted so that the tributes wouldn't be injured in advance of the Games, but the sword with which Lumen was armed was as sharp as a razor.

With a smile that reminded Clark strongly of the bared teeth of a wolf, Lumen came at him. Clark gave ground and avoided the slashing cut. In doing so, Clark almost went over the cliff. Knowing that he didn't have much room to maneuver, Clark watched as Lumen raised the sword overhead and started an overhead blow. Clark used the sack of food he still held to intercept the blow, capturing the sword in the process. He twisted the bag and the sword responded by pressing against Lumen's thumb, the weakest part of his grip, and dislodging it from his hand. As the sword clattered to the ground, Clark kicked it over the cliff, and then flung the bag of food so that it was impaled on the point of Mayson's spear. The sudden weight tore the spear from her hand.

As Lumen started to reach for the knife at his belt, Clark charged forward and shoved him so that he stumbled back a few paces and fell to the ground. Mayson was, at this point, unarmed, so he was able to ignore her, grab the sack of food, and run off in pursuit of Lois and Lysander.

As he ran in the direction Lois had gone, Clark heard Mayson and Lumen arguing.

"Why didn't you throw the spear?!"

"He moved too fast!"

"Like hell he did! You still have a crush on him, don't you?!"

"No! I never did! I just thought he'd be a good part of the Career alliance!"

"Stupid girl!"

There was the sound of a slap, followed by some punches and then a howl of pain from Lumen.

_I guess Becky was right_, Clark thought, but then thought no more about it, because from less than a quarter of a mile away, he heard Lois scream.

*****

After they had split up, Lois had listened and thought that she had heard someone following her. She tried to redouble her pace, but that was difficult, between the thick vegetation and the crate in her arms. She could tell that her follower wasn't Clark. She had heard him move through the brush and, compared to him, this person sounded like the proverbial bull in a china shop. That meant that one of the Careers was on her trail.

She broke out of the brush, into a small clearing. She could hear her pursuer close behind her. Moving quickly, she tossed the crate aside, knowing that she could always come back later and collect it if she needed to. Glancing over her shoulder to see just how close her pursuer was, she tripped over an exposed root. At this unexpected happening, she let out the scream that Clark heard.

Realizing that she was going down, Lois instinctively performed one of the techniques that she had practiced so much. She tucked and rolled, performing a forward somersault and coming back up on her feet. Knowing that she had lost ground, her hands went to the streamer sticks that were hanging by their rabbit hide loops from her belt. She grabbed them, pulled them free, and turned to confront her antagonist.

Just as she completed her turn, Lysander broke through the brush into the clearing. In his right hand, he was brandishing the sword he had been using to cut his way through the brush, and there was a knife in his left hand. Upon seeing her facing him in a fighting stance, he twirled the sword around. It was abundantly obvious that he had practiced with this weapon a lot. His grip on the knife showed experience with it also. He started to laugh, and then, in a taunting tone, asked, "What do you think you can do with a couple of sticks against my sword?"

Lois flung back, "Come and see." With that, the sticks became a blur of motion. They seemed to be everywhere at once, forming an impenetrable wall between them. Lysander had never seen anything like this before, but he was confident in his arms and moved to the attack.

His attack was a simple one that he had used on other occasions with great success. He rapidly closed the distance and began an overhead cut directed at her head with the sword while, simultaneously, he started a sideways slicing cut at her midsection with the knife. If she defended against the sword cut, he would disembowel her. If she defended against the knife, he would cleave her skull to the shoulders.

Lois was watching as he started his move. She saw both threats and knew that her movements would require speed and precision. She stepped into his attack and brought both sticks around in a sweeping move that brought them in hard against his sword arm between the elbow and wrist. There was enough force behind the blow to deflect the stroke and bring two large, red welts to his arm. As soon as she felt the contact, her right arm was moving in the opposite direction. It spun the stick down and around, slapping his knife hand at the wrist and heel of the hand when it was bare inches from her side. Lysander emitted a double howl of pain at these strokes. She had spun her body to the left, the motion imparting more force to the blow, when striking his sword hand, and if the knife had penetrated her body, it would have sunk into her liver, a killing stroke, but one that would not be immediately fatal. It would have resulted in a more lingering, painful death. As it was, the knife flew out of his hand, spinning end over end and landing in the brush at the fringe of the clearing.

Lois jumped back to disengage from combat to see what he would do now. It was good that she did, because Lysander started shouting and slashing left and right in a wild frenzy. He was furious that his attack had been foiled, and the blows she given him had really hurt. He was on the ragged edge of his temper and continued to howl, this time in rage rather than pain. He had already been humiliated in front of all of Panem — including his father — once that morning, when the boy from District 9 had tricked him into tripping on the animal burrow, and had thought that the District 3 girl would be easier prey, especially without her protector. He was enraged that this had proven not to be the case. He should have been more cautious, especially after seeing what had happened to Platinum.

Lysander had trained for this. He came from a long line of victors, and he was going to be a victor, too — it was his destiny. This untrained girl was not going to get away from him. She had to die for what she had done.

In the face of his enraged onslaught, Lois was constantly backing and circling, attempting to stay out of range of that sword. It was longer than her sticks, so she couldn't get in any effective blows unless she again stepped into harm's way and closed the distance. It was time to give herself an advantage, so as she moved away from one of his particularly vicious swings, she brought the tips of her sticks up. She had the rabbit hide loops over her hands like wrist straps, so when she grabbed the tips of the sticks with the fingers of either hand and pulled, the sticks dropped through the loops, interlocking them. She swung her new weapon around sharply and brought the loose stick around in a sweeping arc, hitting Lysander on the left arm between the shoulder and elbow. As she snapped the far stick around, aiming at her target, Lois shouted, "Kai-yah!" At the last syllable, the stick connected, and again Lysander's howl changed to one of pain.

The snapping motion that she had imparted to the sticks for the blow also served to prepare the next strike. She continued the motion around and again snapped the free stick around. This time the target was his right arm, just above the elbow.

Lysander howled in pain at the impact and almost dropped his sword. As he stood, transfixed, watching her move, the sticks whirled around and again moved at a target on his body. This time, he managed to bring up his sword. The blow was aimed at the left side of his head. He took the blow on his sword. The force of the impact almost tore the sword from his hand and he could feel the keen edge dig into the soft wood that the sticks were made of, actually slicing off the end, the force was so great. He knew that if she managed to hit him in the head, it would knock him out, and he had to avoid this at all costs.

Lois swung the joined sticks around the other way and hit him on the other arm, eliciting another howl of pain. She kept the sticks moving, swept them around, and hit him on the outside of his left leg, just above the knee. His knee almost buckled.

At each blow, Lysander became more angry and was now near madness. His screams of mingled anger, pain, and frustration were escalating also. He had never encountered a weapon or a fighting technique like this before. If she kept hitting him with this new weapon, it wouldn't be long before she was able to hit him in the head and knock him unconscious. If he was unconscious or had a broken bone like Platinum had had after _her_ encounter with this girl, his chance at being victor would be at an end. He started swinging his sword even more recklessly.

There was a saying, _If you can't be good, be lucky_, and that axiom was active now. One of his swings brought his sword into contact with the rabbit hide thongs connecting the two sticks, severing one of them.

When this happened, the free end stick flew a few yards away and fell to the ground; Lois jumped back and then continued to back away from him. As she was approaching the fringe of the clearing, her foot caught on an exposed root, perhaps even the same one she had tripped over earlier, and she fell backwards. She attempted to counter the fall by using her arms to slap at the ground, but even so, the back of her head hit another root and she was knocked unconscious.

Seeing this, Lysander began to smile. He limped over to her, favoring his battered leg, and straddled her body. He raised the sword and, holding it point down in both hands, raised it over his head, preparing to thrust it through her heart.

Just then, Clark burst onto the scene and placed himself, also straddling Lois, in front of Lysander, blocking his thrust with his left arm and pushing him away by placing his right hand on his chest and shoving.

With a startled expression on his face and a scream of rage on his lips, Lysander stumbled backwards several paces. When his heel caught on a root, he fell backwards, heavily, landing with a thud. He let out a choked cry as his body gave a convulsive jerk. A second later, the sword fell from his nerveless fingers.

All of this went unobserved by Clark. As soon as he had shoved Lysander away, he was kneeling at Lois's side, holding her in a half-reclining position and lightly slapping her cheek.

"Lois, are you okay? Lois, come on! Wake up!"

Suddenly, a cannon sounded. Clark redoubled his efforts to rouse her, at last thinking of using his superhearing to listen for her heartbeat.

It was there, strong and steady. She was unconscious, but alive. The cannon had been for another tribute.

A few seconds later, Lois roused and swatted at the hand that was slapping her cheek. When she realized that it was Clark, she asked, "What happened?"

Clark said, "Lysander was about to skewer you like we did that groosling." He nodded his head toward Lysander. "I gave him a shove. He's over there. We should probably leave before he wakes up."

Lois looked at Lysander for a few seconds before she said, "I don't think he's breathing."

Clark shook his head and said, "I didn't hit him that hard," as he helped her to stand.

Lois moved over and felt his neck for a pulse. She shook her head, looked at Clark and said, "Help me roll him over."

Clark did as she asked. There was a knife sticking out of Lysander's back.

Both Clark and Lois reached for the knives in their belts. Confirming that they both still had them, Lois said, "That must be the one I knocked out of his hand. It must have landed here, point up. When you shoved him, he must have fallen on it."

All the color drained from Clark's face. He stared at the knife, realizing what he'd done. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone, had even begun to convince himself that he could get through the Games without killing another person. Now, in a moment of carelessness and anger, he had taken the life of another boy. Only moments before, Lysander had been alive — vicious and enraged, and determined to kill Lois — but unmistakably alive.

Now he was dead. All of his hopes, dreams, and aspirations had died with him — and Clark was responsible.

Gently, Clark pulled the knife from Lysander's back. He rolled the dead tribute back over and carefully slipped the knife into his belt. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Lois watched Clark's actions, then retrieved Lysander's sword and laid it atop his body. Putting a hand on Clark's arm, she said, "You can't blame yourself. It was a one-in-a-million chance that he would fall on his own knife. You weren't here when he dropped it. You couldn't have known that it was there."

Clark shook his head. "There had to have been another way. I should have done something different."

"If you're fixing blame, then you should know that I'm as much to blame as you are. I'm the one who made him drop his knife in the first place." When Clark didn't respond, she added, "He would have killed me if you hadn't shoved him away."

Tentatively, Lois put a comforting arm around him. To her surprise, he hugged her back, holding her so tightly that she squirmed to get away after a moment. "Clark, I can't breathe."

He immediately let go of her. "I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Lois assured him. "Clark, we need to get out of here. The others might be looking for us, and … the hovercraft won't come for Lysander until we're gone."

"I know." Clark looked at Lysander again, his shoulders slumped in resignation. He listened for a moment, but heard no indication that Lumen and Mayson were still pursuing them. Shaking his head, he told Lois, "I think we should head southwest, toward the river. There's still some vegetation there, so we should be able to build a small fire and cook the fish you got from the Cornucopia. After that … I don't know. I guess we'll figure things out as they happen."

Lois looked around, then nodded. In silence, they picked up their supplies and Lois's streamer sticks and disappeared into the forest.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Some time later, Lois and Clark sat before a small fire on the edge of the burned area near the river. The area still reeked of smoke, making it unlikely that either of the two remaining Careers would smell the fire and come looking for them.

The weather had grown colder even as the sun had risen higher in the sky, a sure sign that the Gamemakers were trying to bring the Games to an end. It was the ninth day since the 66th Annual Hunger Games had begun, and the Capitol was eager for the conclusion.

Lois sat near the fire, wrapped in the blanket she had taken from the Cornucopia. She and Clark had shared half of the contents of a can of mixed vegetables, then added some of the cut-up fish to what was left in the can to make a stew, pushing hot coals around the can to cook the food.

Clark was lost in thought as he sat across the fire from Lois. Lysander's death, and the moment that Clark had realized that he had killed him, kept replaying itself in his mind. He understood now why Lois had been so distraught upon learning of Platinum's death — before, he had sympathized, but it wasn't until he found himself in the same position that he fully understood. The knowledge that he was responsible for someone else's death, even if it was unintentional, was tremendously painful.

Lysander's death had been an accident, but Clark still kept thinking of what he might have done differently, of how he might have changed the outcome. He had abilities far beyond those of any ordinary person, abilities that should have allowed him to know that the knife was there and that Lysander might fall on it if he shoved him. He could easily have thrown the District 2 boy to the side, thus both saving Lois and leaving Lysander alive. He could have punched him and knocked him out, buying time to rescue Lois and escape. If he'd done things a little differently, he would not now have the blood of another tribute on his hands.

The whole raid on the Cornucopia had gone terribly wrong. Their plan had been simple enough — wait until the Careers left, then slip into the Cornucopia and grab some supplies. Yet, somehow, the Careers had set a trap for them — a trap which Clark had known nothing about.

He had listened _for_ the Careers constantly, allowing himself and Lois to slip away whenever they came near. The problem was that he hadn't listened _to_ them. He hadn't heard them make their plans to trap them in the Cornucopia.

It had nearly been a fatal mistake, at least as far as Lois was concerned. Clark knew that he couldn't have been killed, but his inattention had almost cost Lois her life. In such a dangerous environment, he had to be more careful.

If he had known about the Careers' plans, he would have still planned the raid with Lois. She was dangerously close to starvation, and even he was feeling the lack of food. They would have raided the Cornucopia anyway — but they would have taken steps to make sure the Careers weren't waiting for them, perhaps by leading them away from the Cornucopia or by setting a trap that would keep them occupied while he and Lois took what they needed.

Unfortunately, Clark was growing less and less capable of planning ahead or paying close attention to anything. He hadn't slept for more than a few minutes at a time in six days, and even he couldn't go that long without sleep without there being consequences. He hadn't allowed himself to sleep for fear that he would start floating and give away his secret. Now his exhaustion had caught up with him, impairing his judgment and making him unable to concentrate.

Clark drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees. He stared blankly at the fire and the can of stew, his mind far away.

He didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until Lois shook him. "Clark? Clark!"

"Hmm? What?" Clark looked at Lois groggily, relieved to find that he was still on the ground.

"I think the stew is ready."

"Oh … right." Clark shook his head to clear it. He pulled the knife from his belt, using it to push the coals away from the can.

While she had watched the food cook, Lois had repaired the thong on her streamer stick that Lysander had cut. To free her hands, she had pulled the thongs through her belt again. She felt a lot better with them at hand.

Lois had also found two flat slabs of pine bark to use as plates, so minutes later, they were eating small portions of the fish stew, taking care not to eat too quickly. After going several days with very little food, eating too much at once was likely to make Lois sick, and Clark thought that he shouldn't eat too fast, either, if only to avoid suspicion.

The berries the Careers had gathered were untouched. Clark picked the bag up from where it was sitting nearby and took a few, then twisted it closed and passed the rest to Lois. She took the bag absently, still concentrating upon the fish and vegetables on her piece of bark.

After a moment, Lois took a berry from the bag and started to put it in her mouth. Suddenly, she stopped, frowning, and examined the small fruit more closely, then tossed it into the fire. Quickly, she emptied the contents of the bag into the coals, blowing on them until the berries caught fire. The bag followed them a moment later.

Clark gaped at Lois as she got up and hurried to the river, where she knelt down and began scrubbing her hands with sand and water. He was shocked that someone so close to starvation could throw food away like that. Perhaps there had been enough food when Lois was growing up that unwanted items could be thrown away, but food had never been thrown away in the Kent household unless it was spoiled — and in recent years, not even then, since Clark could eat spoiled food without the slightest ill effect.

He looked at the berries in his hand for a moment, then put them in his mouth — and immediately understood why Lois had thrown the fruit away. The berries looked like blueberries, but they tasted terrible — they were both extremely bitter and insipid at the same time. Whatever they were, they weren't blueberries.

Clark swallowed the handful of fruit — food was food, no matter how bad it tasted — and then joined Lois at the river, scooping handfuls of water into his mouth to wash away the foul taste. Lois gave him a worried look, but when he sat back, the taste finally gone from his mouth, she concluded that he hadn't eaten any of the berries and had just been thirsty.

Silently, they returned to the fire. The temperature was still dropping, so when they were finished with their small meal, they gathered up their hard-won supplies and began the long hike back to the cave, the only shelter they had. By this time, it was late afternoon, so they collected some firewood and carried it with them.

*****

That night, they built as large a fire as they dared. However, that wasn't very large, and it barely took the chill off of the cave.

Starting awake, Lois snapped at Clark, "Clark, I'm fine! You don't need to keep fussing over me!" as he shook her awake for the third time since they'd returned to the cave.

Clark crossed his arms and looked back at Lois stubbornly. "You hit your head pretty hard earlier. I think you might have a concussion." _At least it isn't a skull fracture,_ he thought — he'd used his X-ray vision to check.

Gingerly, Lois touched the lump on the back of her head, then wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket. "Maybe I do. In fact, I probably do. I did get knocked out. But it doesn't help when you keep waking me up every five minutes!"

"Actually, it's about every hour, judging from the position of the stars."

"Clark! How can you be so sure? Those aren't real stars! Leave … me … alone. I just need some sleep."

Using his telescopic vision, Clark could see the real stars beyond the force field, but he couldn't tell Lois that. Instead, he told her, "The fake star patterns repeat themselves after an hour or so." Then he added, "I don't want you going into a coma or something, so …"

"At this point, I would think that hypothermia would be more likely, but either way, if I did, it would make it easier on you."

"What?!" Clark gave her an appalled look.

"There's only four of us left, and the Gamemakers are trying to end this year's Games. If I fall asleep and don't wake up, all you'll have to do is wait out those two idiot Careers, and you'll be the victor."

Clark shook his head. "Absolutely not! I'm not going to let you die from a stupid bump on the head or from the cold."

"You let Lysander die from a stupid fall on the ground."

Clark tensed, clenching his fists at the reminder. "Dammit, Lois …"

Lois put her head down as a wave of dizziness came over her. She knew that he was probably right that she was suffering from a concussion. She also knew that she was being unfair, but at the moment, her head hurt, she was cold, she was sleepy, and she was feeling too irritable to care.

Clark stared at Lois for a moment as she put her head down and closed her eyes, then turned and ducked out of the cave. He looked around and listened closely, but there was no sign of the Careers.

Deciding that Lois was safe enough for the moment, he walked the half-mile to the lake, where he stood looking across it at the Cornucopia. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his token and gazing at it.

Clark wanted to go home, and it was looking more and more likely that he would be victor. There had been no sign of Kryptonite anywhere in the arena, no matter how hard he'd looked. Unless someone sent a gift of Kryptonite to one of the other tributes, it was highly unlikely that he would die — and there was no real reason for anyone to send Kryptonite.

Clark wanted to return home to District 9, to resume his old life and try to forget that he'd ever been a contestant in this sickening game. He had to wonder, though, if he would be accepted when and if he made it home. His parents had always done their best to reinforce his gentle nature, to get him to use his strength for good. What did they think of him now that he'd killed another tribute? What were his friends thinking? Would he be able to go home and get back to normal, or would he be forever separated from those he loved by his experiences in the arena?

And what about Rachel? How could he ever forget Lois? Things would never be the same with Rachel now.

Clark didn't know what he would face if he came out of the Hunger Games alive, but he suspected that, like his mentors, he would be haunted by the experience for a long time to come.

*****

It was almost light by the time Lois got up. She kept the blanket wrapped around her, as the temperature had dropped to well below freezing during the night and the fire had died down to just coals. Even with the blanket folded in two and worn like a shawl, she was still cold. She made her way out of the cave and sat down next to Clark, who was keeping watch.

Clark had persisted in waking her every hour, doing his best to make sure she was okay. He wasn't terribly happy with her for reminding him about what had happened to Lysander, but from his limited knowledge of the aftereffects of a head injury, he thought that Lois's crankiness might come from having a concussion and from the accompanying headache.

When she sat down next to him, he smiled at her tentatively. He ducked into the cave and retrieved a can of soup he had put into the coals of the night's fire while Lois slept. He was careful to use his jacket as a potholder. A package of crackers sat on the ground beside him.

Lois smiled back, reaching to touch the lump on her head. She winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn't as bad as earlier. Clark had found a still-living willow tree at the edge of the lake and had brought her some leaves to chew, and that, combined with the rest she'd gotten in spite of Clark's efforts to keep her awake, had helped.

She bit her lip, trying to think of a way to apologize for what she'd said earlier. It was obvious that Clark didn't take Lysander's death lightly, and it was just as obvious that he wouldn't take her death lightly, either.

"Clark?"

"Hmm?" Clark looked up from where he was using his knife to open the can.

"I … don't think I thanked you for saving my life yesterday."

Clark went back to working on the can. "You saved my life the first day in the arena."

"So … you were … returning the favor?"

"More or less …" Clark tossed the lid of the can aside and picked up the empty can they'd saved from the day before. He poured two-thirds of the soup into it and gave it to Lois.

Lois stared at it, noting that he'd given her the larger share of the food again. She hadn't been blind to the way he'd made sure she had enough food to keep going, even when it meant he went hungry himself.

She reached for the can in his hand, intending to pour some of her soup into it. He shook his head, taking his can back and holding it out of her reach.

"I'm fine," he told her. "You're the one who's starving."

"You need food, too."

"I have some."

"Dammit, Clark …" Lois stood up and grabbed for his can again. When he refused to relinquish it, she still poured some of the contents of her can into it, then sat down again. "Eat!" she ordered him. "You're looking a little thin yourself, Farmboy."

Clark frowned. He had lost a little weight, though not much. His ability to obtain energy from sunlight had helped to keep him healthy even without much food. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to take food away from Lois.

When he tried to give it back, though, Lois moved her can out of his reach and looked at him stubbornly. "No," she told him. "You need it as much as I do — and if you try to make me eat your share, Kent, you'll end up wearing it."

Clark sighed. He'd already learned, in the short time he'd known her, that when Lois set her mind to something, there was nothing he could do to change it. His strength was no match for Lois's stubbornness.

Glancing at the package of crackers beside him, he decided to give in — then make sure she got an extra share of the crackers.

To buy some time, she took a sip of the soup. She murmured, "Mmm, hot soup. Nothing like it on a cold morning." Having run out of delaying tactics, she stared into her soup and said, "Clark, I'm sorry about what I said earlier about Lysander." She finally looked up from her soup and looked Clark in the face as she continued, "You didn't let him die. It was an accident. I know you would have saved him if you could."

Clark turned to look at her. "What makes you think that?"

"I saw how you reacted when that girl fell out of the tree in the fire. You're a decent person."

He shook his head. "No, I'm not. Not anymore."

"Yes, you are — and I don't believe you saved my life just to even the score. If that was the case, we would have been even after you protected me from the exploding tree during the fire. But that was four days ago, and you're still protecting me. You could have abandoned me to starve or killed me outright, but you didn't." She placed a hand on his arm, forcing him to look at her because of the contact as she continued, "You're one of the most decent people I have ever known." She made sure that he was looking her in the eyes. They could see the pain in each other's eyes as she added, "Clark, I know how it feels to have taken someone's life. When I found out about Platinum's death, I was in shock. I hadn't meant to kill her. I hadn't wanted to kill her, and when I found out she was dead, I felt like — like something in me had died. I didn't like her in the slightest, but — I never wanted her dead. I wasn't sorry I'd saved your life, but I was sorry I'd ended hers. I'm still sorry."

Clark was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, "Both of my parents believe in kindness and compassion. They taught me that, and made sure I remembered it as I grew up to be big and strong — they didn't want me to become a bully and take advantage of those weaker than me. Because of that, I never wanted to hurt anyone. In fact, whenever I can, I try to prevent people from being hurt."

Lois interrupted, "I know. I saw how you were with Becky. You did everything you could to protect and help her." Lois saw the look of pain that mentioning Becky's name caused and continued, "It was a real shame about Becky, but she was just too sick. There just wasn't anything more you could have done for her. Even with all of that, she couldn't have had a better ally … nor could I."

Clark gave her a small smile before he continued, "I don't like fighting, and I've avoided it for years. What happened yesterday — I wish I could take it back. I keep thinking about what I could have done instead that would have saved you and spared Lysander's life, too."

"Clark, you didn't know the knife was there."

"No." _But I should have._

Lois took Clark's hand, squeezing it gently. "How could you have? He was between you and the knife. Do you think you could have seen it through him or something? Neither of us wanted to hurt anyone else, let alone kill them. In these Games, though, there isn't much of a choice if you want to stay alive."

_She doesn't know how close to the truth she is. I should have used my X-ray vision. Then I would have seen the knife, but I can't say that._ "I know … but that doesn't make it any easier."

They looked up at the sound of angry voices coming from near the Cornucopia. It was remarkable how sound carried over water. They were loud enough that even Lois could hear them, but only Clark could make out what they said.

"You filthy little rat! I should have killed you this morning instead of just kicking you where it hurts!" Mayson screamed.

"You missed your chance, you stupid —" There was the sound of a slap, followed by a howl of pain and a burst of profanity from Lumen.

The sound of clashing metal echoed across the lake. Clark looked in the direction of the sound and saw the two remaining Careers fighting with swords. They seemed fairly evenly matched until Mayson managed to knock the sword from Lumen's hand, slicing into his arm as she did so. From this distance, Clark couldn't tell if it was skill or luck that gave Mayson the advantage.

Lumen turned to run. Mayson grabbed a spear and went after him, throwing it at him as he ran into the forest. He yelled as the spear struck his right foot a glancing blow, but didn't stop.

"Come back and fight, you coward!" Mayson shouted. Lumen called her an obscene name, but didn't come back.

Clark watched as Mayson moved slowly away from the woods, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. With his X-ray vision, he watched her go into the Cornucopia, where she grabbed a couple more spears and stood in the entrance, ready to defend herself against the remaining three tributes.

"So ends the Career alliance," Lois murmured, gazing across the lake.

"They're both still out there, though," Clark reminded her. "We still have to be careful."

Clark thought back to the previous evening, when Lysander's picture had been projected as the latest tribute to be killed. He shuddered at the memory, thinking about what Lysander's family and friends in District 2 must be feeling. He wondered if Lysander's mysterious Capitol father mourned the loss of his son — or if he even cared.

Sensing his mood, Lois put a comforting arm around Clark, and they sat in silence until trumpets sounded and the voice of Claudius Templesmith boomed through the arena.

"Tributes! Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, there will be a feast at the east end of the lake. Sponsors have generously provided items that each of you need. These items will be in backpacks with your district numbers on them. Think long and hard before you refuse to show up. This may be your last chance."

After that, the arena was silent again. Finally, Lois said, "It's a trap."

"I agree," Clark told her, "but still … what if the item for you is a coat or something? It's so cold …"

"I'm okay," Lois told him as she pulled the blanket more securely around her body, but they both knew that it was a lie. In spite of her best efforts, Lois couldn't hide her shivering. Even wrapped in the blanket, she was cold, and there was no more fuel for a fire near the cave. What they had used the previous night they'd had to carry back with them from the unburned area.

"I can go and get … whatever these sponsor gifts are, and you can stay here where it's safe …"

"Safe?" Lois laughed humorlessly. "There's never a safe place in the arena. Even if they aren't allies anymore, Lumen and Mayson may be waiting for us to split up. We'll be a lot easier to take out separately than together. I think we should skip this 'feast'."

Clark shook his head. "If it gets much colder, you'll freeze to death. I think we need to go."

"And if it's not warm clothing or anything else we can use?"

"It's a risk we'll have to take. I know the Gamemakers are eager to end this, so they're probably hoping everyone shows up so we'll fight. They might even have set a trap, but … I don't think we really have a choice."

"If you're going, I'm going," Lois told him. "I think splitting up is the worst thing we can do at this point … so I'll go with you. Two pairs of eyes can look out for traps better than one, and two against two is better odds than one against two."

Clark considered pointing out that he had managed to overcome both of the remaining Careers just yesterday in order to get to her and save her from Lysander, but when he saw the determined look on Lois's face, he decided to keep quiet.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Later that afternoon, when they started getting hungry again, Clark retrieved some of the dried beef packets Lois had grabbed in the raid on the Cornucopia. When he opened the first one, he was pleasantly surprised. This wasn't simply dried beef or jerky. He called Lois over and showed it to her.

They each took a small portion and put it in their mouths. They were both surprised at the consistency and flavor. It was definitely meat of some sort, but it was mixed with a fatty substance and there was a sweet, berry-like flavor.

Lois said, "I think I know what this is! Have you ever heard of pemmican?"

Clark gave her a confused look. "What?"

She chuckled and continued, "I read about it in a book at school."

Clark replied, "I guess that in District 9, we don't get as much schooling as in District 3. Most of what we do learn is about farming."

Lois gave him a surprised look. "I thought all the districts had the same kind of schools, though I guess it would make sense that you'd learn more about your district's industry." She looked back at the package of pemmican. "Anyhow, pemmican — this stuff — was an American Indian staple. It's a high energy food that stores for long periods of time. Pieces of dried meat are pulverized and mixed with fat and sometimes berries." Picking up a small portion, she held it out and said, "This piece could be the equivalent of a six-ounce filet, but better because of the fats and berries." She popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly. After a couple of minutes, she asked, "How much of this do we have?"

Clark checked their supplies. "Several packages."

Lois thought for a moment and then replied, "We don't know how much longer we will be here, so we will need to conserve what we have, but I think that we should use this for a few meals anyway to rebuild our reserves. I don't know about you, but I'm already starting to feel better just after that small portion."

Clark nodded his agreement and took a second portion for himself, chewing thoughtfully. After he swallowed, he asked, "How do you think we should handle the 'feast'?"

Lois thought for a moment before replying. "The Careers will be there, and they might patch up their quarrel just so that they can go up against us. We need to be careful."

They spent the balance of the day resting — as much as they could with it as cold as it was — and planning. The fat gave them the high calorie count their bodies needed to fight the cold, but they still found themselves getting up and pacing to get the blood circulating.

*****

The temperature in the arena continued to drop and Lois was extremely uncomfortable, even wrapped up in the blanket. She looked at Clark in confusion, wondering how he managed to stay warm enough with just his torn, tattered jacket while she was so cold with a blanket to keep her warm.

"Do you want the blanket?" she asked. "You could wrap yourself up in it while I keep watch."

Clark shook his head. Lois was suffering badly from the cold, but it didn't bother him in the slightest. He wouldn't take away the one thing that was keeping her from developing hypothermia.

"No. That's all right," he told her. "I'm used to going without much in the way of warm clothing. We don't have much in District 9. Remember how I took off my jacket and shirt that one day and didn't burn? That's because, on the farm, rather than ruining our shirts by working in them, we take them off so that we have them later. In the winter, we just make do."

Lois still looked skeptical, but couldn't think of any other reason for Clark's apparent immunity to the cold. Later, though, when Clark was ostensibly keeping watch but actually dozing lightly, Lois got up, sat beside him, and draped the blanket around both of them.

"It's too cold to sleep," Lois explained when he started awake and looked at her inquiringly, "and you look like you're freezing."

Clark had been sitting hunched over in the entrance to the cave, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, hoping that the position would give the impression that the cold bothered him in spite of his claims that he was used to it. In District 9, despite the fact that many people didn't have enough clothing and thus grew used to being cold in the winter, they still grew uncomfortable when the temperature dropped much below freezing, and people sometimes got frostbite or even died from hypothermia. For Clark, showing no reaction to the cold might give away more information than he cared for people to know.

"I'm okay," Clark told Lois, trying to wrap his half of the blanket around her.

Lois gave him an exasperated look. "No, you're not," she told him. "Besides, two bodies are warmer than one. We can keep each other warm."

Clark blushed slightly, though he knew she was right. "Well … maybe we could sit back to back."

Lois gave him an amused look. "Are you afraid of me, Kent?"

"Are you planning to kill me?"

Lois rolled her eyes. "No, and you know that's not what I meant. Are you afraid of girls?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Then quit being such a lunkhead. We're just trying to stay warm. We're not doing anything else."

"I know."

Lois re-draped the blanket around both of them. Soon, her head drooped, resting on Clark's shoulder, and her even breathing told him that she'd fallen asleep.

Clark put an arm around her and she snuggled closer. He gazed up at the projected star patterns, thinking about how right this felt. Then he shook his head. It didn't matter whether this felt right or not. Only one person could survive the Hunger Games, and though over the past day Clark had used his telescopic and X-ray vision to search the arena for Kryptonite until his eyes burned and his head ached, not a single shard could be found. As such, there was very little chance of him dying, and though he would protect Lois for as long as he could, he knew what the probable outcome of the Games was.

*****

Just as the sun was coming up, Clark heard a hovercraft. A few seconds later, Lois heard it also. Clark pointed out over the lake and Lois saw what he was pointing at.

In the early morning rays of sunshine, a hovercraft was approaching. It was almost invisible because of the artificial fog that surrounded it. The impeller blades that were used to keep it up created small cyclones over the surface of the lake, drawing up water and turning it into a mist that swirled up and around the hovercraft, similar to the mist found at the bottom of a waterfall. The early morning sun was turned into rainbows around the craft for a brief time before the temperature turned it into snow. When the craft approached the shore, it was accompanied by a miniature blizzard as well as a mist. When the craft landed and the impellers spun down, the mist settled and immediately froze on the foliage as if an ice storm had just passed through, the ice glittering in the sunlight.

As soon as the hovercraft had passed them, Lois and Clark left the cave and started hiking toward the east end of the lake, looking around cautiously for any signs of danger. It didn't take long for them to get there, so they crouched amongst the rocks, waiting for the craft to set down the sponsor gifts and leave.

The hovercraft had settled between them and the shoreline, staying far enough above the ground that no desperate tribute could get aboard. It obscured their view until a few minutes later, when it lifted off again and moved around the newly set up table and over the edge of the lake, stirring up more water droplets and creating another localized blizzard before it moved away and gained altitude.

Lois wanted to immediately run over and grab her bag, labeled with her district number, but Clark urged caution. The sound of the hovercraft was still in his ears and he couldn't be sure that they were alone in the area.

Lois could see the size of her bag. Something that large just had to have warm clothes in it, and she was anxious to get them and put them on, so even though Clark was reluctant to act, Lois broke cover and headed for the table.

When she started to run, Clark had no choice other than to follow. He was a couple of paces behind her as they approached the table.

By the time they were halfway across the clearing to the table, the Careers, who had apparently patched up their differences long enough to take out the non-Career tributes, came at them at an angle.

Clark heard their footfalls and shouted to Lois. "Look out — Careers!"

Lois looked back and saw the others coming. She was still some distance from the table, but was entering the area of snow and ice laid down by the hovercraft. She literally skidded to a halt and almost fell because of the treacherous footing. Carefully, she turned, pulled the streamer sticks free, and took a defensive stance. She saw Clark move to intercept Lumen, which left Mayson for her to deal with. Both of the Careers were armed with swords, and in addition to this, Mayson had a spear, which she launched at Lois.

Seeing Mayson throw the spear made it easy for Lois to avoid it — a spear was more effective against an unwary opponent. A simple sidestep and the spear passed Lois and skidded along the ice, finally splashing into the lake.

Seeing Lois avoid the spear, Mayson shouted her frustration and, drawing her sword, resumed her charge.

Mayson should have paid closer attention, watching her step instead of simply being intent on her target. She hit the area of ice and snow, not expecting it to affect her footing, but it did — profoundly. As she approached Lois, she tried to stop and take a fighting stance, but her feet almost went out from under her.

Seeing Mayson's difficulty, Lois took a chance and stepped in, sticks swinging. One of them hit Mayson in the ribs on her left side while the other hit her right arm between her elbow and wrist.

The two spots suddenly flared in pain. Mayson couldn't believe that something like these simple sticks could deliver the agony that she was feeling. Her entire left side was aflame with pain and she almost lost her grip on the sword in her right hand. At her gasping intake of breath after that blow, the pain increased, making her think that she might have a broken rib as a result of that stroke. She brought her left arm in protectively. _After seeing what this girl did to Platinum, I should have been more careful,_ Mayson thought. She jumped back, almost losing her footing in doing so.

Lois reacted as she had been trained. Seeing Mayson struggling with her footing, trying to back off, Lois seized the advantage and quickly squatted like a Russian dancer. Her right leg straightened out and swept in an arc, knocking Mayson's feet out from under her.

When Mayson hit the ground, it was on her left side, stoking the fires of the agony she was already in and ripping a cry of pain from her lips. She maintained enough presence of mind to bring up her sword in a defensive gesture as she lay on the frozen ground.

Lois, knowing that she now had the advantage but still not wanting to really harm the other girl, quickly regained her feet and headed for the bags, only to slip on the ice and fall. As she went down, she instinctively used the counterfall slap, which caused her to lose her hold on the streamer sticks. She scrambled back to her feet just as Mayson was approaching.

The treacherous footing worked to her advantage again, because Mayson was skidding and her sword was flailing about as she tried to use her arms for balance and regain her footing.

Seeing this, Lois decided to grapple with her, so she dove at her opponent. Actually, it wasn't much of a dive because of the slippery surface, but it was sufficient to knock Mayson down and force her to drop her sword.

After a brief struggle, Lois was on top of Mayson and had her arms trapped with her calves with Mayson struggling to get free. Lois said, "Quit struggling! Remember what I did to Platinum?! I don't want to have to do the same thing to you!"

"Platinum? What does she have to do with it?"

"I killed her, didn't I? I don't want to have to kill you, too."

Mayson was startled and stopped struggling. "What do you mean, you killed her? _You_ didn't kill her! She hobbled back to us after your encounter with a broken collarbone. Her right arm was useless! _Lumen_ killed her, even though she was his district partner. Lysander almost killed him for doing it — I think he liked Platinum. Lumen finally convinced Lysander that she was a liability with an arm she couldn't use."

A feeling of intense relief swept over Lois with this revelation. _I didn't kill her!_

Lois was so distracted that Mayson was able, with a very violent shake, to knock her off. Both getting to their feet, they faced each other, both unarmed.

Mayson was really hurting from the blows she had received from Lois and her sticks. She also knew that she had bested Platinum when Platinum had a knife and Lois had been unarmed, because Platinum had told her of the encounter before Lumen had killed her. At this point, Mayson wanted to just cut her losses and was of a mind to just grab her bag and go, so she dodged around Lois to do just that.

*****

When Clark saw the two Career tributes break cover and come for them, he thought that he would have to disable one as quickly as he could and then get to Lois's side and help her. He saw that he was the target of Lumen's assault and allowed him to approach. In a perfect repeat of the previous encounter, Lumen swung his blade and Clark evaded the cut just as he had practiced it in the gauntlet machine. He circled around, hoping that Lumen would follow so he could lead him away from Lois. He easily avoided a number of slashes and realized that he was doing so as easily as if he were using superspeed, though he wasn't. Lumen was actually limping slightly, his jacket and shirt were slashed, and Clark could see the scabbed over wound that Mayson had given him the day before. One of Lumen's eyes was blackened and almost swollen shut. Either Mayson had hit him or, in his precipitous flight from her, he had run headlong into a tree or the limb of a tree. He looked like he had been in a battle and lost.

Clark kept avoiding Lumen's slashes and then, when he felt that he had led him far enough away from Lois, he changed his tactics. After a vicious slash, before Lumen had a chance to recover, Clark closed the distance and, placing his hand on Lumen's right shoulder, gave him a shove. Unfortunately, the direction he stumbled in took him to the fringe of the snow-covered area and, as he stumbled, he slid for a few yards. Clark could tell from his exclamation that he was more startled than hurt. Clark had known that this would be the case, because he had scanned the area with his X-ray vision beforehand to make sure that there were no hazards.

With Lumen down, Clark had an opportunity to check on Lois, and saw that she was easily holding her own against Mayson. That gave him the time he needed to properly deal with Lumen. He allowed Lumen to get to his feet and charge. Then he repeated the same maneuver. Clark smiled to himself. Lumen reminded him of many of the bullies he had known in District 9. They were really cowards, usually drawing their confidence from their gangs and not knowing when to give up. Lumen obviously felt that with his superior weapons and skills he should be able to master this untrained rustic, and he was growing increasingly angry that this wasn't the case. Being manhandled like this was humiliating. Some way, he had to recover his lost prestige.

As Lumen was recovering his feet after the fourth time Clark had shoved him down, he saw Mayson break off the conflict with the District 3 girl and head for her bag of supplies. He was indignant that she hadn't finished the job he had given her. Thinking about his pride, and deciding that he could recover at least some of what he had lost by killing the District 3 girl, he broke away from Clark and started running in her direction. He still limped somewhat, but he made as good a time as he could. He was gratified to see that she apparently was distracted, thinking about something, and wasn't paying any attention to what was happening around her. She was just standing there, apparently unarmed, an easy target.

His grip on his weapon was a problem, for some reason. Looking down, he saw that the wound that Mayson had given him the previous day had opened in one of his falls and he had started bleeding again, the blood running down onto his hand and making the hilt of his sword slippery. Taking a firmer grip on the sword, he turned and started a limping run toward Lois.

Clark was taken by surprise by his move and it took him some seconds to take off after him. Since Lumen was actually between him and Lois, he had an advantage. "Lois! Watch out!" Clark shouted.

*****

Lois was watching Mayson as she retrieved her pack and started back. As Mayson was picking up her sword, Lois bent to pick up her streamer sticks, intending to avoid Mayson and head for the table and the packs.

Just as she was bending to retrieve her sticks, she heard Clark's shout. She turned and assumed a defensive posture as she saw Lumen approaching with Clark close behind.

Before Lumen got close enough to take a swipe at her, they all heard a strange noise, which stopped all of them in their tracks. It sounded almost like a human cough sounding from many throats.

They all turned toward the source of the noise and saw what appeared to be a yellow-brown blanket moving toward them.

As it got closer, it resolved itself into a mass of individual creatures similar to rats.

The rats came on like a wave, and like a wave, tried to engulf the first person they encountered, which happened to be Clark.

On the farm, Clark had had to deal with pests like rats before, but never in this kind of quantity. The only weapon that he had available was his knife, so before they reached him, he pulled it from his belt and stood ready. When they came within range, his blade became a blur of motion, quickly going from bright, shiny metal to a blood-soaked crimson. Each stroke killed several of the creatures. The wave crested and broke around him. He continued slashing right and left, front and back. Only a couple made it through his guard, and when they tried to bite his legs, it was near his boot tops, so when their teeth broke, it appeared that they had bitten the leather of his boots. Slowly, a wall of dead bodies was forming around him at a distance of about a foot. The creatures still poured over the bodies of their comrades to get at him.

The next closest target was Lumen. He started swinging his sword, killing several with each stroke — but this was a poor application for a sword. When some of the creatures came to close quarters, his swings became more erratic and he actually cut his own legs. The rats were already in a frenzy as a result of the scent of blood from his bleeding arm, and scores attacked him simultaneously, biting at his legs where he had cut himself. As they sank their teeth into his flesh, he redoubled his efforts, swinging faster and faster, but he was weakening. The blood from his various wounds started flowing more and more rapidly with each bite.

As Lumen went down under the assault, some of the creatures broke away and headed for Mayson and Lois.

Mayson had just recovered her sword, but having seen what had been happening with Clark and Lumen, dropped it in favor of the knife in her belt. She took a defensive posture and used the pack like a buckler while she slashed right and left with her knife. Fortunately for her, the vast majority of the creatures were busy with Clark and Lumen. Still, Mayson did not get away unscathed. Lois could hear Mayson's screams of anguish each time one of the rodents managed to sink its teeth into some part of her body.

Lois had her sticks in her hands and they were whirling around and down in sweeping blows, sending bodies flying through the air for several yards. The problem that she had was that her weapons were not as lethal those wielded by the others and many times one of the creatures she had hit would recover and rejoin the attack. She decided that she needed to use the knife that was in her belt. She dropped the stick in her right hand and grabbed the knife, but when she did that, it created an opening for the rats and two managed to sink their fangs into her legs before she was able to bring the knife into action. She immediately killed those two and the rest that were attacking. Fortunately, in her training in the use of the sticks, independent movement of both hands was stressed, so she kept the stick in her left hand moving while she committed execution with the knife in her right hand.

Mayson was finally able to overcome the ones that had attacked her, and she ran off in the direction of the Cornucopia.

After a short time, Lumen ceased to move and the cannon sounded.

When the cannon sounded, Clark looked anxiously in Lois's direction and saw her still battling the creatures. He saw Mayson in the distance and the pile of rats where Lumen had been.

Clark finally dispatched the last of his attackers and, stepping over the inert bodies, headed over to Lois and helped her finish off her attackers.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged it off. "A lot better than Lumen. Just a few minor bites — a couple on my legs and one on my hand. I don't think Mayson fared as well. What about you?"

"Not a scratch. My knife was too fast for them."

A sudden look of pain came over Lois's features. She looked at the hand where she had been bitten. The blood was flowing more freely than one would have expected. "These bites are starting to hurt something fierce and they are bleeding a lot," she told Clark.

Clark picked up a dead rat and examined its teeth. With a pained expression, he said, "The teeth … the teeth are hollow … like the fangs of a snake." Pushing up the lips, he pointed at a swelling above the gum line. "Poison sacks … those rotten …"

Taking the rat from his hands and tossing it aside, Lois said, "Well, there's nothing we can do about that now. Let's grab our packs. Maybe there's something in there that will take care of this." A worried look crossed her face as she thought of something. "Remember how I told you about pemmican? Well, I've also read about other things — like a species of cobra that has venom that acts as an anticoagulant. That could be why these wounds are bleeding so freely."

Clark was almost in panic mode as he said, "We need to dress your wounds to keep you from bleeding to death."

Lois replied, more calmly than she felt, "Let's check the packs."

Moving quickly, Clark picked up the three remaining bags. Lois's bag contained a wool poncho. He handed it to her and she put it on, hissing in pain as it brushed her bitten hand. Clark's pack held artificial logs that would burn for a long time. The last bag, the one meant for Lumen, held antibiotic ointment and bandages.

"This should help!" Clark exclaimed, holding up the supplies.

Lois took the tube of ointment and dabbed a little bit on each wound, though she wondered how much good it would do with the injuries bleeding so much. With Clark's help, she bandaged all the bites, putting pressure on them to try to stop the bleeding.

The bleeding slowed, but didn't stop. They both watched with alarm as Lois's blood soaked through the bandages in spite of their efforts to stop it. When it had soaked through a second layer of gauze bandages, Clark said, "We should get back to the cave. You can rest and stay warm there, and maybe that will help the bleeding."

*****

Lois and Clark walked back to the cave slowly to help Lois keep the bleeding at a minimum, but by the time they were halfway there, Lois was stumbling dizzily from blood loss. When Clark realized that the blood had soaked into Lois's boots and she was leaving bloody footprints on the frosty ground, he decided to ignore her objections and picked her up to carry her the rest of the way to the cave.

"Clark!" Lois protested as he picked her up. "I can walk."

Clark looked back at the uneven trail of footprints where Lois had been staggering along beside him. "You're losing too much blood, and the more you push yourself, the worse it will be."

"Are you sure I'm not too heavy for you to carry? It's still a ways to the cave."

"You're not too heavy, Lois. Trust me."

"Under any other circumstances, I'd take that as a compliment."

Clark gave her a quick smile, relieved that she could still joke. He was growing more and more worried, though. Lois was losing far too much blood, and though it had slowed when he'd picked her up, it hadn't stopped, but continued to seep from the wounds slowly and insidiously.

When they reached the cave, Clark set Lois down on the blanket and rummaged in Lumen's pack for more bandages. There weren't many left.

"Lumen's sponsors weren't very generous," Lois commented upon seeing what was left.

"I doubt they expected this," Clark said grimly. "They knew he was injured, but the rats were a surprise. The Gamemakers must have rushed to perfect them."

"Those rats … they were meant for you, Clark. They sounded so much like Becky when she coughed …"

"And their fur was the color of her hair." Clark nodded. "The Gamemakers were getting back at me for trying to help her. Haver warned me about arena traps, but I never thought they'd use a dead tribute to try to punish a live one."

"Psychological warfare," Lois said quietly. "Some people in District 3 work on traps for the arenas. They aren't just meant to kill or injure — they're meant to terrorize tributes and keep them off balance. Nothing can be relied upon and nothing is safe, and even the dead can be used as a weapon."

"And all as punishment for a war that ended long before we were even born." Clark shook his head, unable to understand why they had to pay for a war that had ended long before their parents had been born, or even, in many cases, their grandparents.

Clark noticed that Lois was shivering in spite of the warm poncho. Unrolling one of the bandages, he said, "As soon as we have those bites bandaged again, I'll build a fire and you can get warm."

Lois carefully unwound the blood-soaked bandages from her legs and hand. The bites were still bleeding slowly and were more painful than ever. She tried to put pressure on the bite on her hand, but it hurt so much that she couldn't bring herself to press hard enough.

"Clark, you're going to have to help me here," she told him. "It hurts too much for me to put enough pressure on these bites."

Clark tore off some gauze and pressed it to the wound on Lois's hand. She clenched her teeth, trying not to cry out in pain.

In spite of Clark's best efforts, the wound continued bleed slowly. He finally added another thick square of gauze on top of the first and bandaged it as tightly as he could without cutting off Lois's circulation.

When all three wounds were bandaged, Clark took one of the artificial logs from his pack. Following the instructions on the wrapper, he used one of the matches he had taken from the Cornucopia two days before to light the fire. When it was burning, he turned back to Lois.

The bandages were firmly in place, but blood was starting to seep through them anyway. Clark shook his head, knowing that Lois would need more bandages.

"Lois, I'm going to go back to the Cornucopia. You need more bandages, and that's the only place that might have them. There were a lot of first aid supplies two days ago — there might still be some."

Lois had been lying down, but at Clark's words she pushed herself up. "If we go slowly, I should be able to walk."

"No." Clark shook his head, gently pushing her back down. "Stay here and rest. If you keep your weapons at hand, you should be safe enough. Only Mayson is left, and given how many times she was bitten, I'm guessing she's as bad off as you are, if not worse."

"What about the mountain lion? Predators are attracted to the smell of blood."

"She probably won't come near the fire, but if she does, you have your streamer sticks and your knife." Clark squeezed Lois's uninjured hand gently. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Watch out. Mayson was headed for the Cornucopia after she got away from the rats."

"I know. I'll be careful."

"Clark …" Lois sat up again, slipping off the poncho. "Take this."

"No. That's yours. You need it more than I do."

"I have the blanket and the fire. You have a long walk in the cold."

"Lois …"

"Take it!" she snapped. "I don't want you freezing to death out there!"

Reluctantly, Clark took the poncho. The cold didn't bother him, but he had no way of telling Lois that, and even people used to the cold winters of District 9 valued a warm garment.

Clark slipped out of the cave and took off at a run around the lake, moving as fast as he could without using superspeed. When he reached the east end of the lake, he slowed, picking up the faint scent of the poison gas that had been used to kill any remaining rats when the hovercraft had come to pick up Lumen — if any of the rats had made it aboard the hovercraft, they would have been just as dangerous to the people on board as they had been to the tributes.

He gave the area a wide berth — if there was enough poison gas left to kill a tribute, it would look extremely suspicious if he was unaffected. He sped up again, racing through the grass and low brush that had escaped the fire.

As Clark passed the east end of the lake and turned back west, he came upon something that shocked him. The mountain lion had been denning with her cub in a small space beneath a pile of rocks. Some of the rats had broken off from the original pack and had found the den. The adult cat had killed most of them, but had been bitten repeatedly in the process. She lay dead in a frozen pool of blood outside the den, already stiffening in the cold. There was no sign of the cub, and Clark shuddered to think what might have happened to it.

Clark hesitated only a moment before moving on, hurrying in the direction of the Cornucopia. He stopped when he got close, looking around carefully for Mayson, and finally used his X-ray vision to check inside the horn.

Mayson was lying in the mouth of the Cornucopia, shivering violently. Her pack, which contained an atlatl and three spears appropriate for throwing with it, lay nearby, open and discarded. Her clothes were soaked with blood, and more blood had pooled around her.

As Clark approached the Cornucopia, Mayson heard him and opened her eyes, staring at him in fear and pain. He stopped, trying to decide what to do. He wanted to grab the necessary supplies and hurry back to Lois, but he had never been able to bring himself to ignore someone in need, and the girl before him was no exception.

Mayson was dying — Clark had no doubt about that. When he used his superhearing to listen for her heartbeat, he found that it was rapid but weak, and growing weaker as more blood seeped from the bites that covered her body.

Mayson tried to lift her knife as Clark came near, but she was too weak and both her hand and the weapon were too slippery with blood for her to get a good grip. The knife fell from her hand and Clark kicked it out of her reach, not wanting her to try to stab him and hurt herself further.

"Please … just make it quick," she begged Clark, expecting him to kill her and hoping that he wouldn't torture her first.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Clark assured her, looking inside the Cornucopia for anything that he might use to get her off the cold ground. Spotting the sleeping bag Mayson had been using, he brought it to the entrance of the Cornucopia and laid it out on the ground. As gently as he could, he lifted her and set her on it, though she screamed in pain when he touched some of the bites.

Mayson struggled to get off the sleeping bag. Clark restrained her. "It's too cold to lie on the ground," he told her.

"No," she begged. "No … please don't … just kill me and get it over with."

Clark was confused for a moment before he realized what she was afraid of. Perhaps some male tributes would use the opportunity to commit rape, but he wasn't one of them. He would never touch a woman without her consent.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he reiterated. Seeing a canteen in the Cornucopia, he went and picked it up, relieved to find that it was half-full and insulated, so the water was still liquid. Bringing it back, he lifted Mayson to a sitting position, using one arm to keep her from falling back down.

Clark opened the canteen and put it to Mayson's mouth. She took a few sips before turning her head away. "I didn't want to just be a Peacekeeper," she said quietly.

"What?" Clark frowned in confusion.

"I didn't want to just be a Peacekeeper," Mayson repeated. "That's what District 2 produces … stone and Peacekeepers. I wanted more … I wanted to learn how … how the law works … I wanted to go to a university … in the Capitol … but I couldn't … unless I was a victor. So … so I trained … and volunteered for the Games. I thought … if I won … I could get someone to sponsor me … so I could go the university … and study the law. I never wanted to … to hurt anyone." Her voice was too weak for the microphones to pick up, but Clark heard her clearly.

"It's all right," he told her. "We've all got our reasons for being here." He realized something as he spoke. All the times he'd heard the Careers laughing viciously as they hunted for other tributes, mocking those weaker than them, Mayson's voice hadn't been among them. She'd done what she'd had to do to earn the future she wanted — but it was all in vain. She was dying, and all of her hopes and dreams for the future would die with her. In a short time, the Capitolites would forget her — her death was nothing more than cheap entertainment to them — but her family and friends would be left to mourn. Whatever she might have become was lost because of the Capitol's need to show the power it had over the districts.

Mayson wept silently as she gazed at Clark. She had been attracted to him from the first time she saw him, though she knew that nothing could ever come of it. He had seemed to her to be a kind, principled young man, one who had no business being involved in the Hunger Games — but like most tributes from the non-Career districts, he had no choice in the matter. He had taken care of his sick, weak district partner — and now he was taking care of her in her last moments.

"I …" she whispered. "I …" Her head fell back, her eyes wide and staring, as a cannon boomed.

"Mayson?" Clark listened for a heartbeat, but found none. Gently, he laid her back down on the sleeping bag and pushed her eyes closed. He knelt there for a moment, his head bowed and his right hand over his heart in the District 9 sign of respect.

*****

A short time later, Clark was running back in the direction of the cave, a pack of first aid supplies on his back. He ran past the mountain lion — yet another victim of the Hunger Games — without stopping, and soon rounded the lake and made his way to the cave.

Lois was lying atop the blanket when he came into the cave, her eyes wide and the knife in her hand. She dropped it when she saw him.

"I was afraid you were Mayson," she told him.

"Mayson … Mayson's dead," Clark told her.

"I knew one of you had died, but I wasn't sure who."

Clark took off the poncho and draped it over Lois like a blanket. "Why aren't you wrapped up? It's freezing!"

"The blanket kept touching the bites. It hurt too much to stay wrapped up."

Clark opened the pack and pulled out some fresh bandages. His heart pounded in alarm when he checked Lois's bandages and found that they were soaked through with blood, as were her clothes and the blanket beneath her. "Lois …"

"I know. It's bad. I tried using the blanket to put pressure on the wounds, but it didn't help. They just kept bleeding."

Clark carefully removed the old bandages, watching as more blood seeped from the bites. Lois was pale and shivering, and her heartbeat was growing as rapid and weak as Mayson's had been. He shook his head. The bandages weren't going to be enough. Something else had to be done.

Glancing at the low fire, Clark pulled another log from his sponsor pack and added it to the flames, blowing on them until it ignited.

"Lois, I'm going to try to cauterize the bites," he told her, putting the blade of his knife in the fire. "It's the only thing I can think of that might stop the bleeding."

"Clark … we're the only two left," Lois reminded him. "The Gamemakers expect …"

"I don't care what they expect," Clark said harshly. "I'm not going to let you bleed to death." He ducked out of the cave, returning a few minutes later with a broken willow stick from the tree beside the lake. "This is going to hurt … a lot. I want you to bite down on this."

"Clark … I don't want to kill you … but if you save my life, I'll have to try, or … or the Capitol may harm our families."

"Then we'll fight, give them a good show, but I'm not going to let you die from some stupid rat bites!" He pressed the stick into her hand, then used his jacket as a potholder to retrieve the knife from the fire. "Bite down on it."

Taking a deep breath, Lois did as he instructed. Clark pressed the hot metal to the first bite, holding her down and trying to shut out the painful sound of her screaming around the stick. By the time he got to the second bite, Lois had fainted from the pain, and Clark couldn't help but be relieved that she wasn't feeling anything.

As quickly as he could, Clark cauterized the remaining bite, then reached for the antibiotic ointment. As he started to dab it on the burns, he stared in disbelief.

The cauterized bites were cracking open, the blood flowing more freely than ever. All he had done was cause Lois more pain.

Lois awoke a few moments later, shaking and trying to not scream. The bites hurt worse than ever.

Clark was staring at her, a look of sorrow and guilt on his face. "It … it didn't work," he told her.

Lois looked at her hand, then pushed herself up weakly to confirm what he'd said about the bites on her legs. She fell back, clenching her teeth against the pain and shivering.

"It … looks like you're going home, Farmboy," she told him.

"No," Clark told her. "I'll think of something else — like tourniquets. We can try tourniquets. You'll be fine."

Lois shook her head sadly, knowing better. "No, I won't … and I don't think I have the strength to kill you now, even if I could bring myself to do it. I didn't kill Platinum!" she blurted out. "Mayson told me … Lumen did it after she came back to their camp. She was a liability … to the Careers."

"I'm glad," Clark said. "Glad that you don't have to feel guilty anymore."

Lois turned her head, looking into the camera. "Mother, Daddy, Lucy … I love you all … so much. Mother and Daddy … take care of Lucy. I won't … be there anymore to help." She turned her head, looking Clark in the eyes. "Clark … you've been a good friend … the best friend I've ever had. No one else has ever … fought so hard or cared … so much … for me. And I …" She gestured for him to lean down to her.

Clark did as she requested, blinking back tears. He expected that she would whisper something to him, something that she didn't want all of Panem to hear, but instead she pulled his face down to hers, kissing him gently for a moment before laying back. "Don't feel guilty," she whispered. "After all … the Games must have a winner." She glanced at the knife in his hand, clearly expecting him to use it.

Clark stared at her as she closed her eyes, a single tear making its way down his face. He couldn't bring himself to stab her or cut her throat — but he couldn't watch her die slowly and painfully, either, while the Capitolites and even some of the people in the districts watched and made bets over whether he would kill her or how long she would last if he didn't.

In that moment, he made up his mind. Lois wouldn't die in agony like Mayson had, but the Capitol wouldn't get to enjoy the moment, either. He pulled the poncho off of her shivering form, as though to make it easier to kill her, then tossed it with deliberate casualness over the camera, hiding them from view.

"I'm so sorry, Lois," he whispered. He took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, starting at her head and making his way down to her feet. Anyone who checked would think she had died of hypothermia.

The final cannon sounded.

Slowly, Clark pulled the poncho off the camera and laid it gently over Lois, covering her face. He stood there silently, his head bowed and his hand pressed over his heart.

The trumpets sounded and the voice of Claudius Templesmith echoed through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the winner of the 66th Hunger Games, Clark Kent of District 9!"

Clark stood there a moment longer, until he heard the sound of the hovercraft. Slowly, he stepped out of the cave, watching as the hovercraft dropped a ladder for him about fifty feet away. The force field was gone, and the temperature of the arena was already starting to rise.

Clark looked up at the sky, contemplating just leaping into the air and flying away, leaving everything behind. Then he looked at the ladder, realizing that it wouldn't do any good to fly away. It wouldn't bring anyone back or undo the things he'd done.

He started slowly in the direction of the ladder, and although Clark had flown thousands of miles around Panem and roamed the length and breadth of his home district, the fifty feet to the hovercraft was the longest walk of his life.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Clark climbed onto the ladder and felt the electric current that was supposed to freeze him in place. It had no effect on him, but he made no effort to break away as the ladder was quickly retracted back into the hovercraft, carrying him with it.

The tribute doctor, two nurses, an Avox, and two Peacekeepers met him as he stepped off the ladder. Ignoring all of them, Clark went to the window of the hovercraft and looked out. With the Games over, he didn't need to remain ignorant of the arena's location, but that wasn't what interested him.

The hovercraft that had originally brought the tributes to the arena was nearby. He watched as it extended a claw into the cave, gently picking up Lois's body, bringing it out of the cave, and lifting it into the hovercraft.

"Clark, you need to come with us to the examining room," one of the nurses told him, trying to push him in the direction of a room with the windows darkened for privacy.

Clark ignored her, setting his feet and refusing to move. No one could make him move if he didn't want to — that was something he had discovered long ago.

When the other hovercraft flew away in the direction of the Capitol, Clark finally turned away from the window. "I'm fine," he told the nurse, pulling his arm from her grasp. "I'm fine," he repeated, trying to convince himself. He knew that he was fine physically, but mentally — the memories of the arena and the knowledge of what he had done to Lois would be burned into his mind forever.

"That may be," the doctor told him, "but I've heard that before from victors who were far more seriously injured than they thought. Now, come —"

"No," Clark told him coldly. He had no patience with this man, who had spoken so callously of Becky.

The doctor wasn't perturbed in the least by Clark's attitude. This was the fourteenth time he'd served as the doctor for the tributes and the victor, and he'd grown inured to the attitudes of victors just out of the arena. They were frequently angry, scared, and not at all convinced that they were now safe. Indeed, the first victor he'd ever taken care of — District 9's last victor, Matilda — had had to be disarmed by the Peacekeepers and sedated before he had been able to give her lifesaving medical care.

Clark sidestepped the Peacekeepers as they came towards him. "Leave me alone," he warned them, eyeing the stun guns they wielded warily. After all he'd been through, he wasn't about to let them zap him and reveal his secret.

"I know you've had a rough eleven days," the doctor told Clark, "but you're safe now. I'll admit that you look okay on the outside — though you also look exhausted — but you could have internal injuries or infections that aren't immediately apparent and could kill you."

"I don't need your help!" Clark shouted.

"I'll be the judge of that," the doctor told him firmly. "Now, either you can go into the examining room under your own steam, or we can sedate you. The choice is yours."

Clark looked at the syringe the second nurse was bringing in his direction. He knew that he might be able to fake being stunned by the Peacekeepers, but if the nurse attempted to inject him with the sedative, the needle would bend, revealing to everyone that he was not what he appeared to be.

Abruptly, he turned and walked into the examining room. So long as no one tried to stick him with a needle or cut into him with a scalpel, it was unlikely that his differences would be discovered — he hoped. He had hidden his strange abilities for years, and no one had ever noticed a difference in him. Even his parents hadn't thought him any different from anyone else until he developed his extraordinary talents.

The darkened windows of the examination room acted as mirrors. Clark recoiled at the sight of the dirty, scruffy young man with a feral, hunted look in his eyes. His clothes were tattered and stained with blood — very little of it his. He had eleven days' worth of beard growth — all of it grimy. His hair was filthy and matted, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was drawn with exhaustion. No wonder Mayson had been afraid of him. He barely recognized himself.

One of the nurses came into the room, a robe in her hands. "Since you don't seem to be in immediate danger, we're going to give you about twenty minutes to clean up. There's a shower in the bathroom. When you're done, change into this and put your clothes into that bin over there," she instructed Clark. "Be sure to keep your token if you still have it. Your tribute uniform is ready for the garbage."

Clark couldn't disagree with her. Even by District 9 standards, where clothing was mended and repurposed until it fell apart, his clothes were beyond use.

"Thank you for not making me sedate you," the nurse added. "I've never felt quite right about having to hold someone down to drug them after they've survived the Hunger Games. You've been through enough without adding that to your ordeal."

_You couldn't have either held me down or sedated me,_ Clark thought, but he only nodded, pulling the picture of his family from his pocket and looking at it.

"Dr. Wellwood and I will be back shortly to examine you. If you need anything before we return, push this button and someone will come to help you." The nurse stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut, locking it behind her.

Clark looked around the small room. All the medical instruments and medicines were in locked cabinets, presumably to keep victors from either attacking anyone with them or attempting to kill themselves. A closer look revealed that there were no cameras in the room, so he stripped off his filthy clothing at superspeed and stepped into the bathroom to shower. Ten minutes later, he put on the voluminous, all-encompassing robe. There were no shaving supplies, so he didn't use his heat vision to remove his beard. He wouldn't be able to explain how he had done it. Then he sat in a chair in a corner of the examination room and looked at his token.

His parents certainly knew by now that he had survived. Even if they hadn't been watching when his victory was announced, the news would be all over District 9 by now. The reporters who had come to District 9 to interview his family and friends when he was in the final eight would still be there — they didn't leave until a tribute either died or was declared the victor. They would be interviewing his parents now, or be on their way to do so. In Districts 1, 2, and 3, reporters would be interviewing the families of the tributes who had died that morning, accompanied by Peacekeepers in order to keep the angry, grieving families from attacking the reporters, many of whom were selected for the job because of their penchant for asking insensitive questions. Fights between angry families and obnoxious reporters made for exciting television.

Clark knew that his parents and friends would be relieved that he was alive — but what they would think of him when he came home was hard to say. Would they welcome him home, or would his actions in the arena change what they thought of him? Would the Rasens be glad that he had come home, or would his presence remind them painfully of their own lost child? What about Rachel? She had promised to wait for him if he survived, but she had to have seen him with Lois. In a very short time, Lois had become his closest friend — he couldn't allow himself to think of her in any other way. Rachel would have seen Lois hugging him comfortingly after he killed Lysander, would have seen them huddled together under the blanket for warmth the last night in the arena — and she would have seen Lois kiss him good-bye shortly before her death. How would Rachel view him now? Could he ever again feel the way about her that he once had?

It had been only seventeen days since his name was selected from the Reaping bowl, but it felt like a lifetime.

Two and a half weeks earlier, he had been contemplating his adult life, free from the danger of being sent into the arena. He had thought about the prospect of marrying and having children, despite his differences. He had assumed that he would spend his life farming, like his parents before him and their parents before them.

Then he had been Reaped into the Hunger Games, and things that would have been unthinkable before had become reality. Before, he would never have considered taking the life of another person. Now, two people were dead at his hands — and he would have sacrificed his own life to have saved Lois if he could have.

Could he return to his old life in District 9, putting his experiences in the arena behind him, or would he be forever changed by what he had been through? Clark knew that some things would inevitably be different—he would have a house in Victors' Village and more money than he knew what to do with. In six months, he would take a victory tour of Panem, being flaunted before the families and friends of the other twenty-three tributes, the Capitol's way of making sure that they remembered that he was alive while their children were dead. In a year, he would escort two more children to the Capitol to take part in the Hunger Games, and would continue to do so each year for the rest of his life — and it was this that he dreaded more than anything else. It wasn't a duty he could escape, nor would he try — having mentors to explain what to do to stay alive gave the children more of chance than if they had no one — even if it wasn't much of a chance. He would do as much as he could to keep them alive, but he knew that at least one would die each year, and more likely both.

Clark looked up when he heard the key in the lock. A moment later, Dr. Wellwood and one of the nurses walked in. The nurse pointed to the examination table. "Over here, please."

Reluctantly, Clark got up, putting the photo in a pocket of his robe. He walked over to the examination table, more anxious than he cared to admit — not of being sick or injured, but of his differences being discovered. "Should I take this off?" he asked, gesturing to his robe.

Dr. Wellwood shook his head. "No," he told him. "We're a little more respectful of your modesty than your prep team."

Clark climbed up on the table and sat stiffly, not entirely trusting them not to try to stick him with a needle. He tried to watch everything the doctor and nurse did, fearing what they would discover.

Fortunately, there was no need for him to worry. Everything about him was within the range of normal — or could be explained away by the ordeal he'd been through. His heart rate was somewhat lower than average, but not so low that it gave anyone cause for suspicion. His blood pressure was a little higher than normal, but that was common when a person was under a great deal of stress. His temperature was a little higher than average, but after the arena, most victors were at least slightly feverish as their bodies fought off infections — and some people's temperatures were a little warmer than average normally.

The examination was thorough, but Dr. Wellwood didn't seem to find anything strange about Clark — his body was just like anyone else's, even if his abilities weren't. The doctor asked numerous questions, some of them embarrassingly personal. Clark answered in monosyllables — he felt fine, except for being exhausted and hungry, and he had no intention of showing the slightest graciousness to the tribute doctor.

Finally, Dr. Wellwood took the stethoscope from his ears and nodded. "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you, although I'm going to recommend you be given a few days to rest before the post-Games interviews. You're by far the healthiest victor I've ever seen right out of the arena." Looking at Clark, he added, "Do you have any questions?"

Clark started to shake his head, then blurted out, "How can you do this?!"

Dr. Wellwood looked confused. "How can I do what? Give medical care to victors?"

"Be a tribute doctor, but ignore them until they're almost dead! You said you have two teenagers at home. How can you ignore sick kids, then go home and face them?!"

The doctor suddenly understood what Clark was asking. He nodded to the nurse, gesturing for her to leave the room. "I did everything I could for your young friend. Without the care I gave her, she wouldn't have lasted the night, let alone made it into the arena."

"She died before the Games even started!"

"I know, and I wish it had been otherwise."

"She was sick when we arrived in the Capitol. Why didn't you do something then?"

"Because there are rules against anything that might give a tribute an unfair advantage."

"An unfair advantage?! How could treating tuberculosis give someone an unfair advantage?"

"The rules set down by the Gamemakers — and approved by President Snow — don't allow for any more medical treatment than that which will keep a tribute alive long enough to enter the arena. And," he added, "if Becky hadn't made it into the arena, someone else would have been brought in to take her place — most likely one of her sisters. Is that really what you would have wanted?"

Clark shook his head. "No! One dead girl in that family is enough, but … how can you follow rules like that when you know they're wrong?"

"I think that's a question you'll find you're asking yourself many times, now that you're a victor. The world isn't as black and white and clear cut as you might want to believe. In the future, you'll undoubtedly find yourself making some hard choices in situations that have no easy answer."

Clark looked down. He'd already had to make the hardest choice imaginable. The world, he was discovering, could be a much more complicated place than he had ever thought it could be.

Dr. Wellwood looked at Clark sympathetically as he turned to the small sink and washed his hands. When he was finished, he unlocked the cabinet above the sink and removed a scalpel and pre-loaded syringe, setting them on a tray.

Clark looked at the items in alarm. "What're they for?!"

"I need to remove the tracker from your arm." Dr. Wellwood reached for a pair of gloves.

"No!"

"It has to come out. You don't want your movements to be tracked now that the Games are over."

"Don't touch me!" Clark warned.

"I'll numb you up first. You won't feel a thing."

Clark jumped down from the examination table. "Stay away from me!"

"Get back up there!" The doctor carried the tray over and set it on a small table next to the examination table. He picked up the needle and reached for Clark's arm.

"Don't touch me!" Clark warned again.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. Wellwood reassured him soothingly, not understanding the reason for Clark's panic.

Clark knocked over the small table, sending it and the items atop it scattering across the floor. Then he grabbed the needle from the doctor and flung it into the bin where he'd put his ruined clothing.

Dr. Wellwood stared at him, wide-eyed, then went to call the Peacekeepers. Clark looked around frantically, then ran in the direction of the small bathroom attached to the examination room. Stepping inside, he slammed the door and locked it.

Clark looked at his arm, using his X-ray vision to locate the tracker. Dr. Wellwood was right that it needed to come out, but none of his surgical instruments, no matter how sharp, could penetrate Clark's skin, and the needle on the syringe would have simply bent.

Clark touched the spot where the tracker was located, pressing around it until it appeared as a small lump. Then he brought his arm up to his face, working awkwardly to remove the device with his teeth.

Someone knocked sharply on the bathroom door. Clark looked up, pushing the tracker through the small, bleeding hole he'd made in his skin. The person on the other side of the door had just put a key in the lock when he opened the door.

The nurse still had her hand on the key and was almost pulled over when Clark yanked the door open. He steadied her, then presented the tracker to the doctor. "Here …"

Dr. Wellwood gaped at him. "What did you do?"

"I removed the tracker."

"But how …" Dr. Wellwood looked at Clark's arm, seeing the bite marks. "Never mind." He pointed to the examination table. "Sit down." When Clark hesitated, he added, "I need to clean and bandage the wound. You're lucky you didn't sever a major blood vessel. You could have bled to death, pulling a stunt like that."

Clark complied, sitting quietly as Dr. Wellwood cleaned and bandaged the spot where the tracker had been. When he was done, the doctor put the tracker into a box labeled 'Biohazard'. "Just when you think you've seen everything," he mumbled, shaking his head.

The nurse who had first tried to get him into the exam room opened the door. "We'll be back at the Training Center soon," she told Clark. She opened a cabinet just outside the room and handed him a few clean garments in his size. "Why don't you put these on, then come out here? There's a couch that's much more comfortable than the examination table, and you can have something to drink while you're waiting to arrive back in the Capitol."

Clark looked at her warily, but when the door closed behind everyone, he dressed quickly, then walked out of the examination room. An Avox followed him to the couch, presenting him with a fancy glass of orange juice and standing nearby to await any further instructions.

Wearily, Clark sipped his drink and looked through the window as the hovercraft approached the Capitol.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

The hovercraft set down atop the Training Center roof. When the door opened, Clark shook his head to bring himself back to alertness — the couch was indeed comfortable, and he'd been close to falling asleep, despite the danger of floating. As soon as Dr. Wellwood and the nurses left the hovercraft, Clark followed them, escorted by the Peacekeepers.

Marcius, Haver, Matilda, Rosaline, and his prep team were waiting for him. Marcius was almost dancing with joy — Clark was the first victor he'd had since he'd begun his career as a tribute escort in 60. Haver was more restrained, but he still had a look of relief and pride on his face as he clapped Clark on the shoulder. Rosaline grinned widely, hugging him, while his prep team greeted him joyfully, their strange Capitol attire looking even more garish in the bright afternoon sunlight. Only Matilda hung back, her expression unreadable.

Haver turned to Dr. Wellwood. "When we spoke on the phone a few minutes ago, you said that he's fine, that he doesn't need to spend any time in the hospital."

Dr. Wellwood nodded. "He's by far the healthiest victor I've ever seen. Three or four days to rest and some nourishing food — in small portions at first — and he should be ready for the final interviews and the Victory Banquet." He stepped away from Haver, his expression turning grim. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have twenty-three death certificates to fill out." Shoulders slumped, he walked toward the elevator, the nurses following.

Clark heard him and frowned, thinking of the twenty-three other tributes who had died. He wished he could have helped them, could have saved them, but ultimately there had been nothing he could do. Lysander and Lois had died at his hands, Mayson had lost the gamble she had made in hopes of having a better life, and he had failed to protect Becky.

Becky was still on Clark's mind when Haver spoke to him. "I knew you had a chance. I knew that you might come home. We were all worried at first, when you seemed so sick and then the District 1 girl attacked you, but —"

"Did you put her up to it?!" Clark interrupted Haver, turning on him furiously.

"Put the girl up to attacking you?" Haver looked at Clark in confusion.

"Not Platinum — Becky. I know you thought she was a liability to me. Did you put her up to dropping that ball?!"

"What?! No! Clark, no one knew how sensitive the triggers on the mines were — not even the Gamemakers. They were as shocked as anyone that her token set the mines off — those are meant to deter the tributes from leaving their platforms before the Games begin. No one realized that something so small could set them off."

Clark looked at Haver disbelievingly. "So, you're saying that she dropped it by accident?"

Haver and Matilda looked at each other uncomfortably, beginning to realize something. "It wasn't exactly an accident …" Matilda began.

"You think she dropped it on purpose?! Even if she didn't know it would set off the mines, you think she dropped it intentionally? She wouldn't have! Her little brother gave her that ball, and it meant a lot to her. It would have cost her precious seconds to pick it up, and I know how scared she was! She wouldn't have dropped it unless you —"

"I guess you really don't know," Haver said, shaking his head sadly.

"What don't I know?!"

"Clark, Becky was already dead when she dropped her token," Matilda said.

"What?" Clark stared at his mentors for a moment. "That's impossible! She was standing on her launch plate, waiting for the countdown to end — not lying dead on the ground!"

"She dropped her token when she died. If it hadn't set off the mines, her body would have when she fell off the plate." Haver gasped in shock as Clark grabbed his shirt and dragged him forward until their faces were inches apart.

"I don't believe you!" Clark ground out. "You put her up to it!"

"Let go of him!" One of the Peacekeepers tried to separate them, but Clark was unmovable.

The other Peacekeeper pressed his stun gun to the back of Clark's neck. "Let him go. _Now_."

The feeling of the stun gun pressed against his neck brought Clark to an awareness of what he was doing. He looked at Haver's shocked, frightened face and let go of his shirt, dropping the handful of fabric that had ripped away.

"Sorry," he muttered, jerking away from the Peacekeepers. "Sorry."

Everyone stared at Clark as he stepped away, avoiding everyone's eyes. The Peacekeepers looked at him with hostility, his prep team and Marcius gaped at him in shock, and Rosaline, Matilda, and Haver looked at him with a mixture of unease and sympathy.

Clark was shocked at himself. He'd realized years earlier that he could never afford to lose his temper and lash out at someone. Even a normal man could do a great deal of damage if he lost his temper, and he was much stronger than any normal man. He was too strong, too powerful to allow himself to take out his anger on anyone, and yet he'd almost done just that twice in the last two weeks — first when he'd nearly set Haver and Dr. Wellwood on fire with his heat vision, and just now when he'd attacked Haver over his suspicions that the man had encouraged Becky to kill herself in order to give Clark a better chance of surviving.

The first time, the sensation of the heat reflecting off his glasses had stopped him. This time, it had been the Peacekeeper's threat to use the stun gun on him that had brought him back to sanity. The stun gun wouldn't have affected him, but the fact that it was there had reminded him that what he was doing was wrong and allowed him to back down.

Haver was straightening his torn shirt, giving himself a moment to regain his composure. When he looked at Clark, his expression was cool and wary but compassionate.

"Clark, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt here. You're obviously exhausted and you've just been through a terrifying eleven days in the arena. But … don't you ever do that again! You're not in the arena anymore, and you can't attack people. Victors are subject to the same laws as everyone else, and that means that you cannot … _cannot_ … attack anyone. It's over. No matter how angry you might feel, you have to keep control of your temper."

"I know." Clark hung his head. "I'll never do that again … not ever. Not for any reason. Not to anyone."

"Good luck keeping that promise," Matilda muttered.

"Matilda!" Haver turned to glare at her. "He's got a hard enough row to hoe. You don't need to make it worse."

"I'm just being honest, but then, you never did believe in honesty, did you?" Matilda glowered back at Haver.

"Sometimes, it's better to keep your mouth shut!"

Clark stared at his angry mentors. Having had a passing acquaintance with them all his life, he had suspected that the glamorous life the Capitol television programs portrayed the victors as having wasn't quite real, but now, watching Haver and Matilda face each other down, he realized just how unhappy they were. He also sensed that they were both concerned for him, but had very different — and conflicting — ways of showing it.

Rosaline stepped forward, trying to diffuse the tension. She had spent ten years as a member of the prep team for District 4 boys before becoming a stylist herself five years earlier, and had seen two of the boys she had worked with emerge victorious from the arena. In spite of being Career tributes, they too had been traumatized by their experiences in the arena, and had needed time and rest before being able to deal with the people around them again.

"Perhaps the best thing to do now is follow Dr. Wellwood's orders and allow Clark to get some rest," she suggested. Then she added, "Clark, they're telling you the truth. I was watching the beginning of the Games from the launch room. Becky died and, as she did, she dropped her token. No one made her do it, and no one could have stopped it."

Haver looked away from Matilda and nodded. "There was nothing anyone could have done for Becky. She was too far gone. I know you tried to protect her, Clark, but some things are beyond help. You did the best you could, and if it makes you feel any better about it, you made her final days much happier than they would have been otherwise. How many of the other possible male tributes from our district would have taken the interest in her that you did? I would venture to say … none. You were a godsend to her."

Clark stood silently, thinking about Haver's words. He had indeed tried to help Becky, but had ultimately been unsuccessful. He had strength and abilities beyond what any normal person possessed, but he had still been helpless to save the life of one girl — or anyone else.

Becky had been very sick, but Clark still had trouble believing that she had simply died while standing on her launch plate. He wanted to believe what his mentors and stylist said … but he couldn't quite do so. Not without proof.

Haver gestured toward the elevator. "Clark, Rosaline is right. You need to rest. Your room is ready — all of them were cleaned and prepared for use after the tributes left for the Games."

Clark shook his head. "No. Not yet. I … want to … _need_ to see what happened." In truth, Clark didn't want to watch Becky die again, but he knew that he wouldn't be convinced that she had died before the mines exploded unless he saw it for himself.

"Are you sure?" Haver looked at Clark with concern. "You know they'll be recapping all the deaths during your first victor interview. Do you really want to see it now?"

"I _need_ to see it. I need to see for _myself_ that what you are saying is true," Clark replied.

Haver still looked uneasy, but Matilda nodded understandingly. "I'll have an Avox get the tape," she told Clark. "We can watch it in the sitting room on the District 9 floor."

Clark nodded. He was tired — more tired than he had ever been in his life — but he knew that he wouldn't be able to rest until he knew for sure what had happened to Becky.

*****

A short time later, as they were preparing to watch the tape, Rosaline pulled out a container and opened it. Clark's own glasses were in the container. Gratefully, he took off the plastic replacements and donned his own familiar lead crystal glasses. They were in the sitting room, staring at the television as Marcius put the tape into the player and turned it on.

Clark watched as the tributes simultaneously rose into the arena. He saw himself wavering on his own launch plate, barely bracing himself in time to keep from falling, his attention fixed with grim fascination on Platinum's pendant. He heard Claudius Templesmith announcing the beginning of the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games and saw the clock counting down the seconds until the tributes could leave their launch plates. A separate camera was focused on each of the tributes, breaking the screen into twenty-four blocks. Many tributes clutched their tokens, looks of terror on their faces. Others looked bored — but their body language told another story. The Careers looked eager.

Clark watched as Becky looked around the semi-circle of tributes, one hand clutching her throat and the other holding her token. He noted when she saw him and looked momentarily relieved. Then she bent forward, her face turning blue from lack of oxygen. She gasped for air, her mouth and eyes wide, blood running from her nose and the corners of her mouth. Seconds later, her blue eyes went dull and her jaw went slack. The ball fell from her hand, hitting the ground as she started to collapse.

The explosion tore Becky apart, making the closest tributes scream and curse as they were spattered with blood and debris. Every surviving tribute stared in shock and horror.

He continued to watch and could see something of which he had been wholly unaware. Two launch plates from where Becky had been standing, Lois turned from the horrifying scene and looked at Clark with shocked sympathy. Clark himself had been oblivious, staring at the spot where Becky had been, one hand pressed over his mouth to keep from being sick. Now, seeing Lois's response, he felt that much worse. Despite her tough exterior, she had really had compassion for him and Becky.

The tape continued to play, but Clark was no longer watching it. He thought back to a comment Lois had made the day before.

_"It was a real shame about Becky, but she was just too sick. There just wasn't anything more you could have done for her."_ The truth of her statement was now very obvious.

Lois had known what had actually happened to Clark's district partner, but had assumed that he, too, knew what Becky's fate had truly been and hadn't mentioned the matter further, perhaps in an attempt to spare him further pain. Clark himself had been too sick from the Kryptonite exposure and too focused on his own survival to see what was really happening to Becky.

Until now, Clark had believed that Becky had died in the explosion, though he hadn't suspected Haver of having anything to do with it until he'd exited the hovercraft. The man's look of relief and pride had reminded Clark of Haver's assertion that Becky had no chance, and that trying to protect her could cost Clark his life. In his exhaustion and distress over what had happened in the arena, Clark had jumped to the wrong conclusion and unfairly attacked his mentor.

Clark gripped the arms of the easy chair he was sitting in, his fingernails digging in and tearing the upholstery. The others looked up at the sound.

"Turn it off!" Haver ordered Marcius when he saw how upset Clark was. Cautiously, he approached the young victor. "Clark, are you okay?"

Clark let go of the arms of the chair before he could do further damage. Looking up at Haver, he stammered, "I … I … owe you an apology. You … didn't have anything to do with her death." He stood up, facing the older man. "I'm sorry. I should never have accused you of putting Becky up to dropping her token, let alone …"

"I told you before the Games started that I've never wanted any tribute dead. I didn't think she had any chance, but I would never have encouraged her to end her own life in order to improve your chance of survival. I didn't want her dead anymore than you did, though I knew her death was inevitable. Besides, there was her family to think about. Remember what I told you about tributes who commit suicide in the arena? Even though I couldn't save Becky, I wouldn't tell her to do anything that would put her family at risk. Clark, you're only the second tribute I've managed to get out of the arena, but I've always protected the tributes' families and friends. It was often the only thing I could do."

Clark looked down, knowing that if he had found a piece of Kryptonite in the arena and used it to weaken himself sufficiently for Lois to win, it could have been considered suicide, though in all likelihood only he and his parents would have known.

Haver placed a tentative hand on Clark's shoulder. "Clark, I accept your apology. Now, though, you need to rest. If you need anything to help you sleep, an Avox will bring it to you."

Clark shook his head. "I … just want to be alone right now."

"All right." Haver went to the sitting room door and opened it, escorting Clark into the hallway. When they reached Clark's room, Haver said, "An Avox will bring your dinner. I think it's best if you just rest, rather than coming to the dining room."

Clark looked down. "Okay." After a moment, he added, "Haver, I can't apologize enough for what happened earlier. I was wrong, and … I'm sorry."

"I already accepted your apology. Clark, no one comes out of the arena unaffected. It's the kind of experience that changes a person — you're the sole survivor of a violent game, and in order to survive, you had to do things that had formerly been unthinkable. It's said that only a victor can understand another victor, and I think you'll find that it's true."

Clark only nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Without another word, he opened the door to his room and stepped inside, quietly closing and locking it behind him.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

It was two days before Clark left his room in the Training Center. He wasn't sure that he would be able to rest at first — not with so much on his mind. His exhausted body, however, had other ideas. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, it was well after dark. Someone, probably an Avox, had used a key to get into his room, leaving a tray of food on his bedside table. The person had also covered him with a bedspread, as he hadn't stayed awake long enough to get under the covers before falling asleep.

Clark was surprised that someone had managed to come into the room without waking him. He was usually a much lighter sleeper, and had the Games still been going on, his deep sleep would have made him appear a very easy target — at least until his attacker discovered that he was unkillable.

He'd only had an hour's worth of sleep in the last nine days, and even with his extraordinary strength and abilities, Clark had his limits. An ordinary person would probably have died from a combination of exhaustion and the rigors of the arena long before nine days had passed — or simply fallen asleep, regardless of whether it was safe or not. Of course, an ordinary person wouldn't have had to worry about floating while sleeping, which was the reason Clark had stayed awake so long.

Per Dr. Wellwood's instructions, Clark had been left only a small meal — a small bowl of soup, now grown cold, an apple, and a glass of some sweet, carbonated beverage that he didn't recognize but enjoyed the taste of all the same. The soup was easily reheated with his heat vision.

Clark was still hungry when he finished eating. He thought about ordering more food using the machine in the corner of the room — a device upon which one could bring up a menu, order something, and have it delivered within minutes — but when he realized that it was almost midnight, he decided against it. The Avoxes were more in need of rest than he was in need of extra food. Instead, he opened the blinds on his windows to let in the light when the sun rose and went back to bed, tucking himself in tightly this time.

When Clark awoke again, it was morning. A gray-haired woman in an Avox uniform had set another tray of food on the table and was closing the blinds.

"Please leave them open," Clark told her. "I … like the sunlight."

She looked slightly confused, but complied. Clark guessed that most of the Capitolites she served didn't want the morning sun to wake them up.

"Wait," Clark told her as she turned to leave. She turned around, awaiting his orders. "Did you bring my food last night?" She nodded. "And the bedspread?" She nodded again, pointing to the cabinet she had gotten it from.

"Thank you," Clark said, watching an almost comical look of astonishment cross her face. Marcius had told him before the Games that Avoxes were voiceless and nameless, and were to be spoken to only to be ordered about, but Clark hadn't realized until this moment how many people believed as Marcius did — the woman wouldn't have been so surprised if being thanked was a common occurrence.

"I mean it," he added. She smiled somewhat awkwardly, as though it was an expression she hadn't used in a long time, and nodded in acknowledgment.

"You can go," Clark told her. "I just wanted to say thank you."

She nodded again, stepping out the door and locking it behind her. Clark reached for the tray, wondering, as he had on the train to the Capitol, what constituted treason and why a person had to be punished for life for it — and why it was that such persons were treated as nonentities, as though they were machines useful only for obeying commands, rather than living, thinking human beings with as much right to respect and acknowledgment as anyone else.

*****

After a day and a half, Clark had mostly recovered from the long days of sleep deprivation in the arena. His fast-healing body, aided by the bright summer sunlight coming in the windows, was recuperating quickly.

At first, though he didn't know it, he was too exhausted to float while sleeping, and if he dreamed, he didn't remember it. After thirty hours, though, most of which he spent asleep, he was recovered enough that he awoke to find himself floating about six inches above the bed after neglecting to secure himself after the last time he'd gotten up.

Not long after that, the nightmares started. Becky exploded into a swarm of rats that rapidly grew into mountain lions that devoured the tributes. Platinum cut his throat, then proceeded to beat Lois to death with her Kryptonite token. Lysander pulled the knife from his back and stabbed Clark with it, laughing as it turned from steel to Kryptonite. Lois screamed in agony as she died, staring at him accusingly the whole time, after his attempt to end her pain quickly by freezing her failed.

When Clark was awakened abruptly by falling to the floor, soaked with sweat and trying desperately to push away a dream in which the rats he'd killed turned into Becky, he gave up on sleeping. He was still a little tired, but every time he dozed off, his rest was interrupted by terrifying dreams.

As he got up, Clark realized that he wasn't even sure if he'd fallen while floating or simply fallen out of bed. He'd awakened lying next to the bed, half of the bedding kicked off, though he'd secured himself before falling asleep.

Shaking his head to dispel the last vestiges of the dream, Clark pulled a chair over to the window and sat down, hoping that the summer sunlight would energize him enough that the last of his exhaustion would disappear. Resting his arms on the windowsill, he looked down at the street.

What he saw was people going about their ordinary business on an ordinary afternoon. It was late August, so the kids probably weren't back in school yet, and he saw quite a number of them apparently enjoying the last days of summer. Few of them had to work for a living yet, and none had to fear being sent away to die in an arena. Clark envied them, but also hoped that they would never have to experience the gut-churning fear of having to fight until only one person was left standing.

Cars moved along the street, pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, and a bored-looking Peacekeeper leaned against a lamppost, keeping a desultory eye on the crowd. A bus pulled up and let some people off and others on. No one seemed on edge or overly anxious — it was a beautiful summer day, and there was nothing to worry about.

A trio of teenage girls with pink hair and skimpy clothing who had emerged from the bus walked up to the Training Center. The Peacekeeper straightened, watching the girls, but relaxed when one pulled a magazine from her bag and looked up at the building, consulting with the others and counting the floors.

Clark drew back when she pointed at the window he was looking through, though he doubted she'd seen him. She turned to her friends, jumping up and down with an excited look on her face.

Curious, Clark looked back down, surprised when he saw his own face on the cover of the magazine, a celebrity publication whose current issue was dedicated to the recently finished 66th Hunger Games. Using his X-ray vision, he looked inside the magazine, feeling startled and disgusted when he saw page after page dedicated to the way the tributes had died. What startled him even more, though, was the fact that the rest of the magazine was dedicated to him—pictures of him, quotes from his interview with Caesar Flickerman and from the Games, quotes about him from his mentors, stylist, and prep team, from Marcius and from his parents and friends, and from random strangers giving their opinions of him, some of which made him turn red and want to hide.

Unable to resist, Clark used his superhearing to listen to the girls' conversation, though he knew they would be mortified if they knew he was listening. The girl who had pointed to his window showed the magazine to her friends, then squealed, "He's so handsome! I can't wait for his interviews — I'm going to record them so I can watch them every day!" She punctuated her words by kissing Clark's picture.

Another girl rolled her eyes. "That's what you said last year about Finnick Odair."

"He's cute," the first girl replied, "but nothing compared to Clark Kent! Besides, Finn's so young!"

"He's the same age as you," the third girl pointed out.

"Fifteen is too young," the first girl asserted. "Clark's eighteen! He's a man!"

Clark gawked at them, grateful that there was no camera in the room. He was sure his expression was comical. Strangers really thought about him like that? For someone who had grown up in obscurity on a farm in District 9, the attention was both flattering and disconcerting.

"I thought we were going shopping," the second girl complained.

"We are," said the first one, "but I wanted to see where my Clarkie is staying first."

Clark grimaced at her words. Clarkie?

"Come on," the third girl said, rolling her eyes. "I want to go shopping! I can't believe we have to go back to school on Monday."

The three girls moved down the street, the one who had displayed such an interest in Clark occasionally turning back and gazing at the Training Center longingly.

Clark continued to sit in front of the window, somewhat bewildered by what he'd overheard. He was aware that some people adored celebrities — there had been enough girls in District 9 who had sighed over Finnick Odair after he'd won the Hunger Games to make that obvious, and Clark and his male friends had ogled attractive female victors on television and in the few magazines the people of District 9 had access to — but he had never thought that he might be a celebrity. He supposed that some Careers volunteered for the Games in hopes of gaining celebrity status, but it had been the farthest thing from his mind when he was declared victor — there had been far more important things on his mind then, like the fates of his fellow tributes, especially Becky and Lois.

Clark had never sought out attention — he had too many things to hide. The more attention people paid to him, the more likely it was that his extraordinary abilities would be discovered, putting the lives of everyone around him at risk.

Suddenly, Clark wanted more than anything to return home to District 9. He didn't want to be admired and worshipped by the Capitolites — especially for winning a contest he had never wanted to enter, a contest that had cost the lives of two people he cared about and destroyed his faith in himself as a decent person.

Clark got up and headed in the direction of the bathroom. The sooner he made himself presentable and left his self-imposed isolation, the sooner he could get through the final interviews and Victory Banquet and return home, where, he hoped, life would eventually get back to normal.

*****

A couple of hours later, Clark made his way to the dining room. He had showered, shaved, and trimmed his nails and hair. His clothes were fresh and clean, rather than the ones he had been sleeping in for two days. Though he was still a little tired, he felt better than he had two days earlier.

Marcius, Haver, and Matilda turned to look at him as he stepped into the room. An Avox hurried to set a place at the table for him.

"You look like you're feeling better," Haver said, watching as Clark sat down at the table and started to serve himself from the platters of food in front of him.

Clark nodded, not looking at Haver. He was still ashamed of his behavior after returning to the Training Center.

"Has Dr. Wellwood cleared you for the final interviews and the Victory Banquet?" Marcius asked.

"I haven't seen him," Clark replied. "He said I was okay on the way back to the Capitol."

Marcius frowned. "He usually pronounces victors healthy enough for the events after the Games."

Clark shrugged. "I guess he thinks I'm fine, because I haven't seen him since he left to fill out the death certificates."

"Lucky you," Matilda muttered. "He kept me in the hospital for over two weeks."

"That's because you had three broken ribs and a punctured lung," Haver reminded her. "Clark just needed to rest."

"Since you seem to be recovered," Marcius said, "I'll arrange for your interviews. Everyone is very excited about this — you're the first victor District 9 has had in thirteen years."

"I know," Clark mumbled. He'd watched people he knew die on television every year of his life. The year Matilda had won, there'd simply been one less death.

"The menu is already selected for the Victory Banquet," Marcius went on. "The chefs just need to know when to prepare it. Rosaline has been working on your outfits — I think you'll like what she's come up with up."

As he listened to the man prattle on, Clark began to wish he'd stayed in his room. He wasn't ready for all the excitement over his victory. He didn't know if he ever would be.

An Avox entered the room with a bottle of wine. Haver took it, nodding approvingly. "The Gamemakers sent a bottle of District 3's best wine in celebration of your victory."

Clark looked up, startled. "District 3? I thought they developed technology."

"They do, but the area is also one of the best in Panem for growing grapes, so most of Panem's fine wine comes from there. Most of the area is dedicated to industry, so the wine from District 3 is expensive."

Clark watched as the Avox opened the bottle and poured a little wine into a glass. Haver sniffed it, then took a sip. Nodding his approval, he allowed the Avox to fill their glasses.

Marcius and the two older victors raised their glasses, so Clark did the same. He supposed raising a glass of wine meant much the same thing as raising a mug of beer in District 9 — it was a sign of congratulations.

"Go easy on that," Haver warned Clark as he lifted the delicate glass to his mouth. "Have you ever had alcohol before?"

"Beer," Clark replied. One of the products produced in District 9 was beer. Most of it was shipped to the Capitol, but any beer that wasn't quite up to Capitol standards was left with the people who brewed it. There was one bar in District 9, which bought most of the substandard beer, but some people bought it for drinking at home, mostly merchants who could afford to spend the extra money. The son of one merchant had smuggled a keg of beer to the end-of-school dance Clark had attended in June. Alcohol was forbidden at school, but a lot of kids had slipped away from the dance to where the keg was hidden in a stand of trees, Clark and his friends included. Pete, Lana, and Rachel had been giddy and tripping over themselves from the effect of the alcohol. Clark had enjoyed the taste, but it hadn't had any more effect on him than if it had been water.

"This is stronger," Haver told Clark. "Sip it slowly."

Clark took a sip of the red liquid, making a face as he did. For something so expensive, it didn't taste very good.

Matilda laughed at Clark's expression. It was the first time he'd ever heard her laugh. "Don't like it, huh?"

"Well … I think it could use some sugar, or maybe a spoonful of honey."

Matilda seemed to find this hilarious, making Clark wonder how much she'd had to drink before he came to the table. Haver gave Matilda an annoyed look.

"It's a dry wine," Haver told Clark.

Clark gave him a confused look. The wine appeared to be liquid to him.

"He means it's sour," Matilda explained, draining half her glass in one gulp.

Clark frowned, tasting the wine again. It didn't quite taste sour to him, either. Shrugging, he took another sip. He still thought it could use sweetening, but it wasn't any worse than black coffee — and definitely better than some things he'd tasted recently, like those foul-tasting berries he'd eaten in the arena.

When Clark finished his wine, the Avox started to refill his glass, but Marcius stopped him.

"Don't give him more, unless you want to carry him back to his room!"

Clark gave the Avox an apologetic look. "He's right. I've had enough." In truth, the wine was having no more effect on him than the beer had. "You can have some if you like, though."

"No, he can't!" Marcius reprimanded sharply. Both the Avox and Clark looked at him, not sure who he was talking to. "I've told you before, Clark," Marcius went on. "Avoxes are to be spoken to only to give them an order — and you certainly never offer them wine!"

"What if I ordered him to drink some wine?" Clark asked.

"Still unacceptable. He gets what he needs to survive, and he should be grateful for that. He could as easily have been executed for treason. Living as an Avox is a mercy."

"I don't agree," Clark responded. "I think —"

"It doesn't matter what you think. That's the way it is. If you don't have an order for him, don't speak to him — and never offer him anything!"

The Avox was looking around the table, his expression growing increasingly anxious. Haver finally took pity on him. "Leave us," he told the man. "Clark," he went on, "there are some things that simply aren't acceptable, and —"

"I don't care!" Clark interrupted him angrily. He stood up, grabbed his plate, and walked out the door.

*****

A couple of hours later, Haver knocked on Clark's door. "Clark? Are you in there?"

The door flew open. "What?!" Clark snapped at him.

Haver sighed. "I came to tell you that Marcius has arranged your first post-Games interview for tomorrow night, followed by the Victory Banquet. The final interview will be the following afternoon, and then you'll be on your way home."

"Fine," Clark said, starting to close the door.

Haver put a foot in the door to keep it from closing. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't."

"Come on. It's a pleasant night with a nice breeze."

Clark realized that Haver wanted to discuss something better off not picked up by the microphones, but he really didn't want to talk to him right now. "I'm tired."

"You've slept for two days. You need to get some fresh air."

"No."

"Yes."

They stared at each other challengingly. Finally, Haver stepped back. "Have it your way." He turned and walked away.

Clark shut the door, then pushed his glasses down, watching Haver walk in the direction of the elevator. He had no intention of following him — until curiosity and a desire to get out of his room got the better of him.

Quietly, Clark left his room and boarded the elevator. When he reached the roof, he looked around, seeing Haver standing near the wind chimes, looking down at the street.

Clark walked quietly in Haver's direction, tapping him on the shoulder when he reached him. Haver jumped, startled.

"Sorry," Clark apologized. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Haver sighed. "Your attitude, for one." When Clark started to interrupt him, Haver put up a hand, shaking his head and warning him to stop. "First off, I agree with you about the treatment of Avoxes, and no, you aren't required to be as rude as Marcius. It's perfectly acceptable to say please and thank you. However, Marcius is right in that you shouldn't offer them wine — or anything else. Any Avox who accepts a gift and gets caught will be severely punished."

"I didn't know that."

"Marcius should have told you, instead of assuming you knew. He sometimes forgets that things are different in District 9. Now, as to your attitude —" When Clark started to turn away, Haver grabbed his shoulders and turned him back around. He faced down the angry young man. "I understand why you're acting this way. Most people don't — and if you get angry and walk out of an interview with Caesar Flickerman, or worse yet, talk back to President Snow, you'll make life very difficult for yourself and the people back home. No matter how provoked you feel, you have to keep your mouth shut.

"Smile, or at least keep a neutral expression. You probably won't have to say anything at tomorrow's interview, which is mostly about celebrating the accomplishments of our team as a whole in keeping you alive." At Clark's look of disbelief, Haver added, "I never said we were a great help, or that the majority of the credit didn't go to you. Nevertheless, the Gamemakers will honor your entire team — just before they show three hours of highlights from the Games. You have to sit quietly and watch, no matter how you feel about it. They'll go over every death, and they'll go over every remotely exciting thing you did. You can't let yourself get upset — at least, not openly. If you want to talk to me or Matilda later, we'll be there."

Clark couldn't imagine wanting to talk to Matilda about anything, but he only nodded. "I've watched the post-Games interviews every year of my life. Most victors looked dazed, but some look triumphant. What am I supposed to look like?"

"Just be yourself — as long as you don't get angry. I can't see you celebrating anyone's death — all of Panem saw your reaction when you killed the District 2 boy."

"His name was Lysander. Don't you know their names?"

"Yes, but it's easier to think of them as numbers. It's hard enough knowing that I'll probably be accompanying the bodies of two children back to District 9. If I let myself think of the other tributes as anything more than nameless, faceless numbers, rather than people with hopes, dreams, and fears, I'll have to mourn them, too. When I have to watch them die alongside the kids I watched grow up, year after year, it becomes too much. Next year, and every year after that, you'll be a mentor, and you'll find out how hard it is to watch all those kids die. If you don't acknowledge them as people, just like your own tributes, you'll find it easier."

Clark shook his head. "I don't think I'll ever be able to do that."

"There's a lot of things you won't think you can do — until you do them."

They stood in silence for a moment before Clark spoke up. "Haver … Caesar said that Lysander was the son of a Capitolite, but didn't say who. Do you know who his father is?"

Haver hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

"Who?"

"A man named Lex Luthor. He's the wealthiest person in Panem, and is second in influence only to President Snow."

Clark's eyes widened with shock and a hint of fear. "I've seen him on television a couple of times."

"You'll probably meet him in person at some point — he always takes an interest in victors. Whatever you do, don't let on that you know that he's Lysander's father. Don't try to apologize for his son's death. If he wants to speak to you about it, he will. Otherwise, pretend you don't know about his connection to the tribute you killed."

"How could he let his son become a tribute in the Hunger Games?!"

"I won't even try to speculate about how Mr. Luthor's mind works. Suffice it to say he's an extremely powerful man and one you would be wise not to cross if you can avoid it. He may be at the Victory Banquet. If he is, and if he approaches you, smile, be polite, and don't ask any questions. The same goes for any other wealthy, influential people you might meet. If you don't know who someone is, just be polite. Your best bet is to keep out of trouble and not make a spectacle of yourself. Don't drink too much, don't ask questions, and if Marcius or I tell to do something — or not do it — just do what you're told. You can ask us questions later.

"Now, there are two questions that are likely to come up, and you need to have answers for them. It doesn't matter if they're true, as long as they're plausible. The first question is — why did you cover the camera just before the District 3 girl's death?"

"Her name was Lois! Call her by her name!"

"All right, Clark. Why did you cover the camera before Lois's death?"

Clark hesitated. "I didn't mean to cover it. I just pulled off the poncho and had to throw it somewhere."

"Is that the truth, or is that something you made up?"

"It's all I'm going to tell you." Clark looked at Haver coldly.

"Then your answer will be that you tossed it aside without thinking about where it would land."

"Of course I thought about where it would land! I couldn't throw it on the fire!"

"Clark —" Haver sighed and rubbed his temples. "Unless you have a better answer, just tell Caesar — and anyone else who asks — what I just told you to say."

"But —"

"Clark!" Haver lowered his voice when he realized how loud their argument was getting. "You have to give a plausible answer that absolves you of responsibility. The Gamemakers are not pleased that you covered that camera and denied the audience the chance to watch Lois die."

"To hell with the Gamemakers!"

"Listen to me, Clark. The Capitol audience has a short memory. The Gamemakers do not. Neither does Snow. For the sake of the future tributes of District 9, try to make it seem like an innocent mistake. You don't want them taking out their anger at you on future tributes."

"It isn't right!"

"Right or not, it's the way things are. You'll have all sorts of obstacles to negotiate now, whether for yourself or for the sake of others. The sooner you learn that, the better. Now, that brings me to the second question — how did Lois die?"

"That's none of your business."

"Clark, what did I just tell you?"

"She died, okay? What does it matter how?"

"People will want to know how she died, since they didn't get to see it for themselves. Did you kill her, or did she die of natural causes?"

"There was nothing natural about those rats!"

"So, you're saying she bled to death?"

"No!"

"Then how did she die? Did you kill her?"

Clark turned and looked out at the street. Finally, he replied, "She just died. I guess it was natural causes. I took the poncho off to make it easier to … to kill her, but then I didn't have to. She just died."

"Then that's what you'll tell Caesar when he asks — and that's what you'll tell anyone else who asks, too."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You're going to have to, but if you tell people what you just told me, and don't try to elaborate, they may ask fewer questions than they would otherwise.

"Now," Haver continued, "Marcius will undoubtedly have you up early to meet with your prep team. Even though your interview isn't until 7:30, he'll insist upon having everything perfect. You can stay here for a while if you want, but you should go back to your room at some point and try to rest. I doubt you'll have time tomorrow, and tomorrow night will be a late night."

With that, Haver turned and headed for the elevator, leaving Clark alone with his thoughts.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The following evening, Clark stood beneath the stage with the other members of his support team. It was customary for them to stand on metal plates that would rise from beneath the stage — an act that bore an unfortunate resemblance to the tributes rising into the arena. The prep team, Marcius, and Rosaline took their places on their platforms without trepidation, but Haver, Matilda, and Clark stepped onto their plates nervously, all three remembering being lifted into the arena.

The Panem national anthem played, and then Caesar greeted the audience from the stage. As with the night of the interviews, the most influential Capitolites had an excellent view of the stage, while everyone else crowded around trying to see. Clark swallowed hard, wondering if the father of the boy he'd killed was in the audience.

The first platform rose to the stage, carrying Clark's prep team with it. He could hear their feet thumping on the stage as they danced around in delight in response to the cheers of the audience as Caesar introduced them. Marcius was next, and he was just as excited, though slightly more restrained. Rosaline rose to the stage next, bringing roars of approval from the audience, many of whom remembered her as a member of the prep team for two District 4 victors.

Haver and Matilda made the District 9 sign of respect to Clark just before they were lifted onto the stage. More cheers erupted — District 9 had gone a long time without a victor, and many people were eager to applaud the fact that the underdog had come out on top.

Clark stood alone on his platform, his heart pounding with anxiety. It was entirely too much like the morning he'd entered the arena, and he suspected that, although he'd survived, the most dangerous part of the Games was just beginning.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He wasn't about to go into the arena again. He was about to go onstage, where thousands of people would applaud him, and thousands more would watch this interview on their televisions.

Clark looked up as the panel above him slid open and the metal plate began to rise. Unlike when he entered the arena, he wasn't trapped in a glass tube, and it was only about ten feet to the stage, rather than a hundred, with no time spent in darkness.

The audience went wild as he rose onto the stage. Remembering Haver's instructions, Clark pasted a smile on his face and nodded to acknowledge the cheering people. The smile was entirely fake, but he doubted many people noticed. In the Capitol, people saw what they wanted to see. In addition, Rosaline had dressed him in tight pants and a loose, open vest with no shirt, commenting that people wouldn't be looking at his face when he was dressed like that. Her remark had embarrassed him at first, but now he was glad to distract people who might otherwise guess that he was anything but happy to be there.

Caesar strode over to him as the plate locked into place. "Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 66th Annual Hunger Games, Clark Kent of District 9!"

More cheers erupted. Clark stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. He couldn't bring himself to act like he was proud of his accomplishment. What was there to be proud of? He had outlived twenty-three other kids, killing two of them himself. That wasn't something to celebrate.

When the applause died down, Caesar directed Clark to sit in the victor's chair, an ornate chair from which the victor watched the highlights of the Games. The highlights would go on for three hours and were required viewing for everyone in Panem — even the Capitolites, who usually had a choice as to whether they watched the Hunger Games or not.

Clark sat down, putting his hands in his lap so that he wouldn't accidentally squeeze the arms of the chair and break them. The lights dimmed and the Capitol seal appeared on the screen as the highlights began.

The first half hour showed highlights of the pre-Game events — the Reaping, the tribute parade, the tribute scores, and the interviews. Most of it was dedicated to Clark and his actions — and reactions — to the events. A great deal of it concentrated upon his interactions with Becky, with some people in the audience cheering at the sight of him lifting her onto his shoulders during the tribute parade and gasping at the sight of him carrying her from the spotlight during the interviews. An upbeat soundtrack played the whole time, making Clark clench his fists as he listened, since it only served to underline the fact that every tribute but him was dead.

The music and the focus changed when highlights of the Game itself began. The soundtrack alternated between a fast beat that increased the suspense level and a slower, more mournful tune, depending upon what was being shown. Clark stared at the screen, wishing that he could look away but knowing that he was required to watch — and he didn't think he could have looked away if he'd been allowed to, no matter how horrible it was.

Though he'd already seen the footage of Becky's death, it wasn't any easier to watch the second time. For a moment, Clark felt as though he was back in the arena, swaying precariously on his launch plate as he watched the girl he had promised to protect die.

The murmurs of the audience, clearly audible to Clark, brought him back to reality. Many of the voices were surprisingly sympathetic. _"That poor girl. She should have been in the hospital, not the arena." "Why are such young children allowed in the Games? They never have a chance."_

The bloodbath was equally hard to watch. Clark had seen little of it in the arena, since he had immediately run for higher ground — only the District 11 boy, Tack, had died in front of him. In comparison to some Games, this bloodbath had relatively few casualties — only five tributes had been killed in those first few minutes, six if Becky was counted, which Clark didn't. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing about Becky dying before the gong sounded was that she was spared the terror of the bloodbath.

Five tributes dying in the first few minutes of the Games was a low number, but it was still five too many as far as Clark was concerned. He wished he could have helped them, but as sick and weak as he'd been from Kryptonite exposure, all he'd been able to do was run for his own life — and he still would have been killed if Lois hadn't attacked Platinum.

One of the highlights shown was the fight between Lois and Platinum. Though Clark had been there, he had been half-blinded by the Kryptonite, and hadn't seen Lois use one of her "dance moves" to kick Platinum away from him. Indeed, he'd missed a good portion of the fight because he'd been crawling away uphill before finally struggling to his feet and turning to see what was happening.

No tribute's death was left unshown in the highlight film. Clark saw how the Career tributes had allowed Claude to fight for them during the bloodbath, only to turn on him once they'd secured the Cornucopia for themselves. By that time, Platinum had staggered back to her friends and Mayson was trying to tend to her injuries, so they were the only two of the six Career tributes who hadn't participated in torturing Claude. The District 3 boy had been confused and terrified at the others turning on him, pleading with them and screaming in pain as they'd amused themselves by poking him with knives and spears and throwing rocks at him. It was only when he'd broken away from them and nearly escaped that Tiburon, the boy from District 4, had put a spear through him.

It hadn't been long after that when Lumen had killed Platinum. She had been sitting atop a crate, propped up against the side of the Cornucopia, a blood-stained bandage on her head and her useless right arm dangling. Lumen had asked her with false sympathy how she was doing. When she'd mentioned that she couldn't move her arm, he'd nodded, then abruptly run her through with his sword.

Platinum had stared at him in silent shock for a few seconds before dying while Mayson screamed and Lysander went after Lumen. The two boys had fought with their swords before Lysander had succeeded in disarming Lumen and shoving him up against the Cornucopia. He had been about to kill him when the other three Careers had pulled him away. Lumen and Lysander had screamed at each other, much of their conversation bleeped out, before Lumen had finally convinced Lysander that Platinum had been a liability to them.

The audience gathered around the stage reacted to each of the events shown in the film, laughing, cheering, and even gasping in shock. Occasionally, Clark's reaction to the film was pictured in a small square in the corner of the screen. He realized, upon seeing himself, that he looked dazed at the overwhelming reminder of the suffering and death that had taken place in the arena. Like many victors before him, he found seeing everything that had happened to his fellow tributes to be unbearable.

What was even more telling than what was shown was what wasn't shown. Lois's angry rant against the practice of interviewing the families of the final eight tributes was completely absent, probably because it hinted at rebellion. Clark had no idea if it had been shown when she'd said it, but it was definitely missing now.

Some people in the audience cheered when Lysander's death was shown. Clark kept his face carefully blank, but his fists clenched so hard that his fingernails cut into the palms of his hands. How could anyone take such delight in a person's death? Yes, Lysander had been vicious, but he had still been a human being, with hopes, dreams, and a family who would miss him — and a powerful father in the Capitol who might even now be in the audience.

When the final battle between the tributes was shown, followed by the rat attack, some members of the audience exclaimed in delight at the sight of the venomous creatures. Clark had been shocked when, earlier that day, Marcius had told him that toy copies of the rats had been rushed into production, both action figure type toys and plush ones, and were predicted to be very popular amongst the Capitol children once they were available to buy.

It wasn't the only shocking thing Clark had heard that day. One of the men on his prep team had commented that he had been getting a new tattoo when the fire had broken out in the arena, and he had found it so amazing that he had gotten the tattoo artist to include some flames in the design. The female member of the prep team, Hermia, had remarked that she had wished to be in Lois's place when Clark was carrying her back to the cave, prompting Clark to snap at her, asking why she would want to be in the place of a dead girl. Hermia had run off in tears, though later Rosaline had gotten her to apologize for being so insensitive, and Clark had apologized for yelling at her.

When the highlights of the last couple of hours of the Games were shown, it became apparent that Hermia wasn't the only woman in the Capitol who had envied Lois or thought it romantic that Clark had tried to take care of her and protect her to the very end. Clark found the comments and sighs appalling.

_She's dead,_ he thought. _Lois is dead, and yet some women want to be in her place so they can be close to me. Why would anyone want that? And romantic? She was bleeding to death and in great pain. There's nothing romantic about that. And I couldn't save her. All I could do was end her pain. I wonder what these women would think if they knew that I killed her?_

When the film showed Clark tossing the poncho over the camera, there were baffled comments from the audience. Most had already seen the end of the Games, but many had assumed that there had been another camera filming Lois and Clark and that the Gamemakers were saving what had happened for the highlights broadcast.

Clark knew that there had been only one camera in the cave — he had checked. And though he didn't feel any pride in winning the Games, he was nevertheless glad that he had denied the Capitolites the sick pleasure of watching Lois die. Her death had been private, the cause uncertain. For the Capitolites, who were accustomed to seeing the deaths of every tribute, no matter how gruesome or painful, the frustration of not seeing Lois's death was great. They didn't know what had happened, and Clark vowed that they never would.

Finally, the highlights broadcast ended and the anthem played again. Clark stood as President Snow stepped onto the stage, followed by a little girl carrying a cushion with a crown atop it. Snow took the crown from the cushion, a broad smile on his face, but Clark flinched when the man placed the crown atop his head. There was something cold and calculating in Snow's expression when he looked at Clark, something that made the young victor very uneasy, though he couldn't put his finger on why.

When Snow put the crown on Clark's head, the audience cheered. Panem's president stepped off the stage and Caesar came over to Clark's side. Clark's team joined them, making the audience grow even louder and more enthusiastic. As Marcius, Haver, and Matilda had coached him to do, Clark smiled, bowed, and waved to the audience. This seemed to go on for an eternity before Caesar told the audience good night, reminding them to tune in for the final interview tomorrow, and Clark was finally able to escape the spotlight.

* * *

"Good job," Haver told Clark as they walked away from the stage. "I know it wasn't easy, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. You've gone a long way towards protecting your family and the future tributes of District 9."

Clark kept his hands at his sides, hiding the almost-healed cuts from where he'd dug his fingernails into his palms. "I hated every minute of it."

"Most victors do," Haver said. "They've already lived through the Games and have no desire to see them again. The few who are happy about it are almost always Careers who have trained their whole lives for the Games — and even most Careers are glad to get the first interview over with."

"Now it's time for the Victory Banquet," Marcius interrupted them. "It's at the president's mansion, and you'll meet all sorts of important people, including your sponsors, so remember to smile and thank them."

"What sponsors?" Clark asked. "I didn't receive any sponsor gifts."

"Matilda and I did arrange for sponsors," Haver told Clark, "but the Gamemakers refused to allow any gifts to be sent to you until the feast. By that time, everything was so expensive that it took all of the sponsorship money to provide those artificial logs. Had you received gifts earlier, what you received at the feast would have been far smaller and far less useful."

"Gifts would have been more useful earlier," Clark said, "when Lois and I were starving and freezing."

"I know," Haver replied, "but the Gamemakers were upset by what you did at the tribute interviews, and they were upset with Lois for complaining about the way the families of the final eight tributes are interviewed, so although the money was donated and the gifts ordered, nothing was actually sent to you. There were a number of sponsors who were unhappy about that, but they couldn't overrule the Gamemakers. Only President Snow can do that, and he very seldom interferes."

Clark remembered the calculating look on Snow's face as he'd placed the crown on Clark's head. He shuddered inwardly, realizing that he'd caught the attention and gained the ire of the most powerful man in Panem — and Snow would almost certainly be at the Victory Banquet. It was, after all, being held at his home.

A long black limousine pulled up beside them. Clark barely glanced at it before continuing along the street, but Marcius grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Where are you going?" Marcius asked. "This is our ride."

Clark looked at the car incredulously. "But it's only about half a mile to the mansion."

"As the victor, you're expected to arrive in style."

Clark looked at Marcius like he'd lost his mind. Very few people had cars in District 9 — the mayor had one, the judge had one, and the Peacekeepers shared three. Well-worn, much-mended trucks were used to bring the harvest to town for processing and shipping to the Capitol, but most farm families didn't own one personally — the high cost of fuel and maintenance made it far more practical for two or three families to share a single truck. Very few people rode in them aside from families living on farms far from town, who used them to transport the entire family — and sometimes more than one family — to town for the Reaping. The few days between the Reaping and the beginning of the Games were often full of celebration, not because people enjoyed the Games, but because it was often the only time friends and families were able to get together.

Using a vehicle to travel just a few blocks was almost unheard of. Even those who had cars didn't usually use them to drive around the small town, and the roads outside of town were almost all unpaved, pitted with potholes, and were nearly impassable with snow in the winter, while being muddy or dusty the rest of the time. Most people in District 9 walked everywhere, or rode horses if they had a long way to go.

Even in the Capitol, the large number of pedestrians that Clark had seen pointed to the fact that most people found it easier to walk short distances than to drive. As such, the idea that a group of perfectly healthy people would use a car to go such a short distance seemed incredibly strange.

Marcius sighed and rolled his eyes. "Just get in," he told Clark.

Clark did as he was told, looking around with interest in spite of himself. The seats were made of fine leather, and there was a television, a tape player, and a small machine for playing music chips. There was even a wet bar, which Haver and Matilda looked at longingly but decided to forgo in favor of the drinks that would be served at the banquet.

It took only a few minutes for the limousine to reach the president's mansion. The vehicle had to move slowly because of the number of people in the street, most of them celebrating and quite a number of them drunk. There were extra Peacekeepers to control the crowds, but they didn't help much, and sometimes added to the chaos.

Once inside the mansion, the group was escorted to a medium-sized ballroom. A live band played in one corner, though no one was dancing and few people appeared to be listening. There was an open bar at the far end of the room, which had attracted a lot of people. Matilda headed straight for it, leaving Haver to get Clark situated.

There was a platform in the center of the room, with a table set up for the Clark and his team. Haver escorted Clark to his seat at the head of the table.

"There will be waiters coming around with the different courses," he told Clark. "They'll also bring champagne and whatever non-alcoholic beverages you want. They'll also get you drinks from the bar, but it's faster just to go up there yourself. I recommend that you limit how much alcohol you drink. You're young and, unless I miss my guess, not terribly experienced with alcohol. Considering how badly some people act when they've had too much to drink, I recommend you have no more than one or two drinks, lest you make a complete fool of yourself in front of all these wealthy and influential people."

Clark nodded, acknowledging what Haver was telling him. He was well aware that people often said and did things they shouldn't when they were drunk, and it was important that Clark keep his thoughts on the Games to himself. Alcohol had no effect on him, but Haver didn't know that, and it was easiest just to play along.

The food was good, though Clark had little time to enjoy it. Wealthy sponsors kept stopping by the table, telling Clark how much they'd enjoyed the Games and apologizing for their gifts never reaching him. Most wanted their picture taken with him, and they grew increasingly intoxicated as the evening went on. Clark responded politely, shaking their hands, listening to what they had to say, even if it was almost incomprehensible, smiling and acting pleased to have his picture taken with them.

It was growing late when the crowd parted to let one man through. Clark was eating his dessert when the man stepped up onto the platform. He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, as he looked into the eyes of Lex Luthor.

The fork fell from his hand, bouncing off the table and clattering to the floor. A waiter rushed to pick it up and replace it with a clean utensil, but Clark paid no attention as he stared wide-eyed at the father of the boy he'd killed.

Luthor had a glass of champagne in one hand, and didn't appear to be angry or in mourning, but Clark was quickly learning that some people were very good at hiding their true feelings. The man held out his free hand and Clark shook it briefly, wincing as he realized how sweaty his palms had suddenly become. He seldom sweated, except when upset, but Luthor definitely made him nervous.

As he'd been doing most of the evening, Marcius hurried over to introduce Clark to his latest visitor. "Clark, this is Lex Luthor, owner of LexCorp. Mr. Luthor, this is Clark Kent, the victor of the 66th Hunger Games."

"I know." Luthor glanced at Marcius briefly, then ignored him. He sat down at the table, his eyes fixed on the new victor. "This year's Games were most … interesting."

"I … ah …" Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw Haver shaking his head, reminding him not to say a word about Lysander. "Thank you, sir."

"Clark … may I call you Clark?"

"I … um … of course, sir … uh … Mr. Luthor," Clark stammered, his heart pounding.

"Clark, I make a point of getting to know the victors, assessing their potential, so to speak. You've gained opportunities that few people from your district will ever have, so —"

"Excuse me, Mr. Luthor," an older man interrupted, looking apologetic.

"What is it, Nigel?" Luthor looked annoyed.

"President Snow has requested an audience with the new victor — immediately."

"I'm sure it can wait."

"No. He was quite emphatic. He wishes to speak to Mr. Kent _now_."

Luthor still looked irritated, but he nodded. "All right. Clark, I will speak to you at another time. After all, one mustn't keep President Snow waiting."

Clark would have been glad for the interruption, but he had even less desire to speak with Snow than he did to speak with Luthor. Most of the people he'd met at the banquet were merely interested in meeting Panem's latest celebrity. Luthor and Snow's motivations were unknown, and they scared him.

Clark shot a glance at his mentors. Matilda looked unhappy, while Haver looked worried, though he nodded, indicating that Clark should follow Nigel.

Clark got up and followed the man out of the ballroom and down a long hallway. Nigel stopped at a door near the end, knocking and announcing his presence.

"President Snow, it's Nigel St. John. I've brought the new victor."

"Come in," Snow responded.

When they entered the room, Clark saw Snow sitting behind a large desk. The president looked at Clark, smiling the same way as he had when he'd crowned him victor — a look that made Clark want to run from the mansion and fly as far as he could from the Capitol.

"Thank you, Mr. St. John." Nigel nodded, leaving the room and closing the door behind him. "Mr. Kent, have a seat."

Clark sat down in a chair facing Snow, wondering just what the man wanted.

"I wanted to take a moment to congratulate you personally on your victory," Snow said. "It's been many years since District 9 has had a victor."

"Th-thank you, sir."

"There's no need to be nervous, Mr. Kent. Winning the Hunger Games is quite a feat." Snow picked up a teacup sitting in front of him and took a sip. He glanced at a tray of food on his desk and pushed it towards Clark. "Try some of the fruit, Mr. Kent. It's quite a delicacy."

Clark looked the crystal dish of berries, recognizing them as the foul-tasting ones he'd eaten in the arena, though these were covered with sugar. "No, thank you, sir. The food at the banquet was good, and I'm pretty full."

"I insist. Just try one."

Not wanting to be rude, Clark took one of the berries and put it in his mouth. In spite of the sugar, it tasted just as bad as it had in the arena. He swallowed it quickly, nodding when Snow offered him a cup of tea.

"Thank you, sir." Clark took a sip, trying to wash the taste out of his mouth.

"Would you like more fruit?"

"No, thank you," Clark said. "I … couldn't eat another bite."

Snow smiled, but his eyes were cold. "Do you know what you just ate?"

"Ah … some Capitol delicacy?"

"Some people have thought so, though it's the last delicacy they ever tasted. That's nightlock. It contains one of the most deadly poisons known to man. One berry is enough to kill a grown man."

Clark jumped up, knocking his chair over. The teacup fell from his hand, shattering on the edge of the desk. "I … excuse me …"

"Don't bother, Mr. Kent. If it was going to kill you, you would be dead by now. Besides, you ate a handful of them in the arena — without the slightest ill effect."

"I —"

"The girl realized there was something wrong with them, but you did not. You ate them — and yet here you are."

"I … I guess I'm very lucky …"

"More than lucky, I'd say. Pick up the chair, Mr. Kent, and sit back down."

Clark picked up the chair, his hand tightening involuntarily on the back of it. The wood broke, a large piece coming off. "Sorry," he said quickly. "It must have broken when I knocked it over."

"It's brand new and of the highest quality — very hard to damage," Snow said. "Unless, of course, you're unusually strong …" He pulled a remote from his desk. "Sit down, Mr. Kent. There's something I'd like you to see."

Clark sank into the chair, staring at the large television as Snow turned it on and started the tape. On the screen, he saw himself drowsily stuffing a handful of berries into his mouth and grimacing at the taste.

"That number of nightlock berries, Mr. Kent, could have killed every remaining tribute — and then some. Yet you weren't affected in the slightest. Now, most people didn't see that — a pair of tributes eating a meal is seldom very exciting, especially when another pair of tributes is fighting. However, during the Games I keep an eye on everything in the arena, so I took note of your little meal."

"I guess I'm lucky to be alive."

"As I said before, Mr. Kent, I believe it's more than luck." Snow pointed to the television as a new scene appeared — old, grainy security footage that showed a boy running alongside a train. "Those trains travel at about two hundred and fifty miles an hour — far faster than anyone can run, and yet that boy — who looks amazingly like you — was keeping up with it."

Clark stared at the television in shock. He remembered that day clearly — he'd been trying to find out just how fast he could go, and racing the train had been a thrill he couldn't resist. He hadn't thought about the possible consequences then, though when he'd told his parents what he'd done, they'd finally told him the truth about his origins and then told him never to let anyone know what he could do.

Now it had come back to haunt him.

"There were reports of a boy running alongside a train in District 9," Snow went on, "but the men who made the report had been drinking a particularly potent type of liquor that sometimes induces hallucinations, so no one believed them. But after seeing you eat those berries and survive, I remembered the report and requested the security footage from that train. It seems, Mr. Kent, that you have many talents outside the ordinary."

Clark just stared at Snow, his eyes wide and his heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy. He'd never been so scared in his life — not when he was Reaped, and not when Platinum had tried to kill in him in the arena. Then, he could only die, and though he would have been mourned, his family and friends would have been safe. Now, though — he'd always done his best to hide his unusual abilities, but as his parents had feared, he hadn't been able to completely hide them in the arena — and now the nation's president, a man not known for his compassion, knew what he could do.

Snow wasn't finished though. He pointed at the television as another scene appeared, showing Clark wrestling with the mountain lion.

"It's interesting, isn't it, how that cat shredded your clothing and yet did absolutely no damage to your skin." Snow looked at Clark assessingly.

"It … I think it caught its claws in my clothes, and that's why it didn't —"

"Mr. Kent, if there's one thing I value, it's honesty. I suggest you refrain from lying to me." Snow pointed as another scene appeared. "As you already realize, those rats were meant for you. When they bit you just above your boots, they should have bitten through your skin and left you with uncontrollable bleeding. They didn't, though. Instead, their teeth shattered. And then there's this …" The scene changed again, showing more grainy security footage. "When something hits the force field around the top of the Training Center, it automatically activates a security camera. The Peacekeepers who reviewed the footage from a night about five weeks ago saw something bounce high into the air after hitting the force field. They assumed it was a dummy, as a group of bored young college students on summer break had borrowed a private hovercraft and flown it over the Capitol and the surrounding countryside, dropping objects from it for the apparent purpose of amusing themselves.

"Several dummies and mannequins were found on rooftops and in parks, so it was assumed that one had been dropped near the Training Center. When I looked closely at the footage, however, it appeared that the dummy tried to control its flight after it bounced off the force field — and furthermore, it looks just like you. Either someone, for unknown reasons, created a dummy that looked just like a District 9 boy, or it _was_ that boy. Somehow, Mr. Kent, you managed to be above the Capitol that night, hundreds of miles from home. No hovercraft have been in District 9 this summer, and no District 9 residents have been permitted in the Capitol except the tributes and their mentors. So, the question is, how did you get up there? There are no tall buildings close enough for you to have leaped from, and the angle at which you hit the force field ruled out having jumped on it from the roof of the training building. Furthermore, the hovercraft the college students borrowed recorded their flight path — a feature added by the owner, whose son enjoys taking it out. At no time did it go anywhere near the Training Center."

Clark was shaking. "I … I … President Snow, I …"

"It seems, Mr. Kent, that you have … powers … far beyond that of ordinary humans. On the night you were 'born', a shooting star streaked across Panem and a rocket landed in one of your parents' fields in District 9. Your parents insisted to investigators that you were their son … but it seems they lied. No ordinary couple could have produced a child like you."

Snow pushed back his chair and stood. "Now, Mr. Kent, it's getting late. I suggest you keep this conversation to yourself. It's highly unlikely that anyone else in Panem has put the clues together — and if they have, I want you to mislead them, as you tried to do to me. When you return to the Capitol in six months during the Victory Tour, we will talk further. I think your powers may prove useful to me." Snow reached over and pulled a sweet-smelling white rose from a vase on his desk. Handing it to Clark, he added, "Oh, and Mr. Kent … lest you think you can eliminate the danger by killing me, you should know that five other people have copies of the tape I just showed you. They are all very loyal, and all are under strict orders not to view the tape unless something happens to me. Their copies contain instructions as to what to do with your parents, friends, mentors, and a few strangers if I should die under suspicious circumstances. No two people will have the same fate — but I don't think you'll like what will happen to any of them if you disobey me."

Snow took the tape from the player and walked towards the door. "Calm yourself, Mr. Kent. Remember — no one is to know of this conversation." He opened the door, looking back at Clark. "Take as long as you need to get yourself under control, then return to the ballroom. I'm sure you can think of a plausible excuse for taking so long."

With that, Snow left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving the terrified young victor staring after him.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Clark sat in Snow's office, staring at the door Panem's president had exited through and trying to stop shaking. His hand clenched around the sickly-sweet smelling white rose the man had given him, pulverizing it.

When Clark had been declared the victor of the Hunger Games, he had thought the worst was over. He had imagined that he would complete his obligations as victor in the Capitol and go home, where things would eventually be, if not exactly like they were before, at least somewhat close to normal.

There was no chance of that now. Snow knew what Clark could do — at least, he knew some of it. He knew that Clark was extraordinarily strong, though perhaps he didn't know just how strong. He knew that Clark was fast, if not exactly how fast. Snow had discovered Clark's invulnerability, both to injury and to poison, and he knew that Clark could fly.

He wasn't sure whether Snow knew about his other abilities or not, and he had no intention of asking. If Snow didn't know about Clark's freeze breath, his telescopic, heat, and X-ray vision, or his enhanced senses, Clark wasn't going to tell him. Panem's president knew too much already, and that knowledge had put too many people at risk.

Clark had a good idea of why Snow had threatened strangers if the young victor didn't obey him. He had guessed that Clark's conscience wouldn't allow others, even strangers, to suffer because of his actions. Clark might be able to protect his family and friends in District 9, but there was no way he could protect random strangers.

Clark dropped the crushed rose on the floor and stood up slowly, taking a deep breath to help calm himself. If he went back to the ballroom visibly upset, there would be questions, and Snow had instructed him to keep their conversation to himself. After a few more minutes, Clark had managed to calm himself enough to leave.

He was walking toward the door when something else occurred to him. As closely as Snow had been watching him in the Games, he would certainly have seen how sick and weak Clark was at the beginning, and would have known for certain that it wasn't an act when Platinum attacked him and cut his arm. What if Snow had figured out the reason for Clark's weakness at that time? It seemed impossible, but Snow hadn't stayed the president of Panem for twenty years by being unobservant — and the way Clark had stared at Platinum's Kryptonite pendant might have been a dead giveaway.

Unless Snow knew how Kryptonite affected Clark and said something or acted upon this knowledge, there was no way for Clark to know how much Panem's president knew without asking — and asking would give the knowledge away if Snow didn't already have it. Clark realized that all he could do for the moment was keep his mouth shut and hope that President Snow didn't know any more than he'd already revealed.

Slowly, Clark made his way back to the ballroom. It was past two in the morning and the crowd had thinned out considerably, but Marcius, Haver, and Matilda were still at the victor's table waiting for him. Rosaline had long since left, as had most of his sponsors. There was no sign of Luthor, something for which Clark was grateful — he had enough on his mind without having to try to figure out what the man's game was.

"Is everything okay?" Haver asked. "You were gone for quite a while."

"I … ah … President Snow wanted to congratulate me on my victory. It's been a while since District 9 had a victor …"

"Tha' took a hou'?" Matilda slurred, looking at him curiously.

Clark hadn't realized just how long he'd been gone. "Well … um … I … I think I'd had a little more to drink than I should have, and I kind of got lost."

Matilda gave him a skeptical look. "Bull —"

"Matilda!" Haver sighed, looking at Clark's half-full champagne glass. He'd been discreetly supervising the young victor all evening, having learned the hard way when Matilda had won just how much trouble a new victor could get into when given unlimited access to alcohol, and knew that Clark had drunk only a glass and a half of champagne. Given the amount of time that had passed and the amount of food the young man had consumed, either Clark was exceptionally affected by alcohol, or something else was going on.

Haver looked at Clark as he sat down. The young victor looked nervous, and given how unlikely it was that there was any truth to his excuse about having had too much to drink, Haver was almost certain that something had happened in Snow's office that Clark was reluctant to talk about. The older victor also knew that Snow had a penchant for making demands of victors and threatening their loved ones if they didn't comply. Snow's demands were an open secret amongst past victors, and much of what he demanded was considered reprehensible. Those victors who had no friends or loved ones to care about were largely immune to his demands, as their celebrity status amongst the Capitolites provided them with a certain amount of protection from harm — even a dictator had to deal with politics, and keeping the local populace content went a long way towards preventing rebellion.

The Capitolites eventually lost interest in some victors, especially those who made no effort to maintain their celebrity status. Most of them were still left alone by Snow, who used popular victors to gain favor with other powerful Capitolites. Some attractive victors were forced into prostitution, while those who possessed special skills had their talents sold for Snow's benefit. Once a victor no longer interested the public, they could no longer be used to gain favor, and became valueless to Panem's president. These victors were largely ignored, but on occasion, they became pawns in Snow's schemes to control other victors.

Haver watched as Clark reached for his half-full champagne glass. He started to say something, but Marcius beat him to it.

"If you've already had so much to drink that you managed to get lost, you certainly don't need that." He tried to take the glass from Clark, but the young victor held it out of his reach. Exasperated, Marcius added, "You've had enough!"

Clark was still feeling less than calm after his conversation with Snow, and though he had settled down enough to hide his distress from most people, he knew that his mentors suspected something. Marcius seemed to have been taken in by his excuse, but the man's attempt to snatch the glass from Clark's hand annoyed him.

Unthinkingly, Clark tightened his grip on the glass. It shattered, champagne and broken glass flying everywhere.

Everyone stared at the mess. Haver took it as his cue to get Clark out of there before anything else happened.

"Marcius is right, Clark. You've had enough. In fact, as late as it's getting, I think it's time to go back to the Training Center. Your final interview is early tomorrow afternoon — or today, actually — and you'll want to be well-rested before Rosaline and your prep team come to get you ready for it."

Clark nodded. He was more than ready to leave the president's mansion. He didn't want to risk running into Snow again — or Luthor, for that matter. He stood, using a napkin to blot the champagne he'd spilled and brush off bits of glass.

"Matilda, come on. We're leaving," Haver said, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Hmm?" Matilda barely looked up from the empty glass in front of her.

"We're going back to the Training Center. It's late."

"Uh … s-sure." Matilda got up, swaying drunkenly. She started in the direction of the door, forgetting that she was on a platform, and stumbled down the two steps, falling and hitting her head on a chair. "Ow …" she mumbled.

Clark had been looking around the room and hadn't noticed Matilda's drunken staggering until he heard her head hitting the chair. When he heard her fall, he hurried to help her up. Haver watched him, noting that he showed no sign of being drunk.

Matilda was so drunk that she could barely walk. Clark finally picked her up, making her giggle, and carried her out to the street. The limousine carried them back the half mile to the Training Center. Matilda had fallen asleep by then, so Clark carried her inside and put her on her bed once they reached the District 9 floor.

Marcius looked at Matilda in disgust, then shook his head. "I'm going to call Dr. Wellwood. She hit her head pretty hard on that chair."

Clark frowned in confusion. "I thought he'd left."

"The tribute doctor stays at the Training Center until the victor goes home," Marcius explained. "That's why I was surprised that he didn't check on you and declare you healthy enough for the final events."

Clark shrugged, secretly glad that the doctor hadn't checked on him a second time. Dr. Wellwood hadn't seemed to notice anything strange about him, besides his insistence upon removing the tracker himself, but Clark didn't want to press his luck. "He declared me healthy on the way back to the Capitol. I guess he didn't think I needed any help."

While Marcius went to call the doctor, Haver and Clark stayed beside Matilda. She was snoring loudly enough to drown out most other sounds, so Haver leaned close to Clark and said softly, "After all that champagne, you could probably use some fresh air. Once Dr. Wellwood gets here, we can leave and go up on the roof."

Clark shook his head. He suspected that he knew why Haver wanted to talk to him on the roof. "I'm fine."

"You won't be in the morning. Getting some fresh air and taking some time to sober up might help with the hangover you're going to have."

"No."

"Clark." Haver looked at him seriously. "Your final interview is at 1:30 this afternoon. You cannot show up for it hung over. You need to get some fresh air before you go to bed."

Clark shook his head again. "I'm fine," he repeated.

They were interrupted by Marcius returning to the room, a confused look on his face. "Dr. Wellwood is nowhere to be found," he announced. "He didn't answer when I called his room, or when I called the Training Center hospital. Neither of the nurses have seen him since he went to fill out the death certificates, and when I called his home, his wife thought he was still here."

Clark frowned, a frisson of alarm running through him. Had Snow suspected that Dr. Wellwood knew something about him? He knew that Snow didn't want anyone but himself to know about Clark's strange abilities. Had something happened to the doctor because he had the misfortune to have examined a victor with unusual powers?

"I called the local hospital," Marcius continued, "and they're sending someone to take a look at Matilda. They'll take her back to the hospital if they deem it necessary."

Haver nodded. He'd seen Clark's worried look when Marcius said that Dr. Wellwood was missing, and felt it more important than ever that he talk to Clark and find out what had really happened when the new victor had gone to talk to President Snow.

"Could you keep an eye on Matilda?" Haver asked Marcius. "I'm taking Clark up to the roof to help him sober up a bit."

"He looks fine —" Marcius started. He stopped when Haver gave him a pointed look. "A little fresh air might be good anyway, though," he concluded.

Clark shook his head, but stopped when both men looked at him impatiently. "Fine," he said crossly, "but just for a few minutes. I'm tired."

Haver sighed. "Come on."

Once they were on the roof, Haver waited until the breeze set the wind chimes to jangling, then said, "All right. What really happened when you met with President Snow?"

Clark shrugged. "He congratulated me on being victor."

"And?"

"And then I got lost —"

"No, you didn't." When Clark looked at him, Haver went on, "You weren't drunk, either. You only had one and a half glasses of champagne and no other alcoholic drinks — yes, I was watching. Matilda got so drunk at her Victory Banquet that I thought it was a good idea to keep an eye on you. Also, you didn't act like you were impaired at all, and when you came back from talking to Snow, you looked anxious, not intoxicated. Now, what really happened?"

"Nothing."

"He demanded something, didn't he? And then threatened your family if you didn't comply."

Clark paled. "What? H-how did you —?"

"He often makes demands of victors, using them both to cement his hold on power and keep them in their places. His favorite tactic is to prostitute attractive victors to those loyal to him. Is that what he asked of you?"

Clark shook his head. "No … no, he didn't ask for _[i]that[/i]_."

"But he demanded something?"

"Y-yes."

"What did he demand?"

"I … I can't say." When Haver raised an eyebrow, Clark went on, "He wants something, but it has to stay a secret. If I say anything, then my parents, my friends, you and Matilda, and some unknown strangers will be punished." He stopped, fearing that he'd already said too much.

Haver nodded. "I won't ask you about it anymore, then — and I won't say anything to anyone else. I probably don't need to warn you, but just in case … Snow doesn't make threats lightly. If he says he's going to do something, he does it. Do whatever you have to do to protect your family. All of Panem's presidents since the end of the Dark Days have used victors for their own purposes, but Snow is among the worst. He's stayed in power for twenty years by ruling with an iron fist and not allowing any hint of rebellion from anyone. The Hunger Games didn't start with him, and I doubt they'll end with him, but as long as he's in power, there are far more dangerous games to play. He makes the rules, and everyone else has to learn to play by them."

"What did he ask you to do?" Clark asked.

"Snow wasn't yet in power when I won. His uncle was president of Panem then. One of his allies admired my fighting skills, so he was granted an exclusive contract on me as a prizefighter. I didn't always look like this," Haver added, gesturing to his permanently battered-looking face. "I made a lot of money, though not as much as the man who owned my contract. I knew better than to resist, so my family was safe, though to be sure I kept them away from me. I bought them a house in the merchant section of town and still give them money every month, though they have their own business now and no longer work for starvation wages in a factory. I am no longer a prizefighter — I'm too old, and the man who owned my contract is deceased."

Clark frowned but nodded, his expression thoughtful. "And Matilda?"

Haver hesitated. "Matilda became a victor after Snow took power. What he demanded of her, however — that's a discussion for another time."

They turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Marcius came toward them, looking exasperated.

"Matilda's fine," he told them. "The doctor checked her over and left some painkillers for when she wakes up in the morning — which she'll probably enjoy entirely too much. I told him to send the bill to the Gamemakers. They won't be happy, but it's their job to keep track of Dr. Wellwood." He looked at his watch, then looked at Clark. "I suggest you go to your room now. It's almost four o'clock, and Rosaline and your prep team will be here at ten to get you ready for your final interview."

"And then I'll be going home."

Marcius sighed, unable to understand why Clark was so eager to leave the Capitol and return to his impoverished home district. "Yes, then you'll be going home."

Clark nodded. "Good night, then." He hurried towards the elevator, glad to get away from Haver's inquiries. He knew that his mentor meant well, but he couldn't risk anyone finding out what Snow had said to him. He didn't yet know what Panem's president intended to do with his "powers," but the less that was said, the better.

That afternoon, Caesar joined Clark in the District 9 sitting room for the final interview. The victor's chair had been placed in the room, along with a few cameras. Aside from Marcius, Haver, and Matilda, there was no live audience for this interview.

As Haver had predicted, the circumstances of Lois's death were a chief focus of the interview.

"Clark," Caesar said, "when you covered the camera with that poncho — was that deliberate?"

Clark shook his head. "No, Caesar … I was just trying to get it out of the way. I didn't think about where it would land. I had to take it off her to … to make it easier to do what had to be done."

"And what happened after that? Everyone is wondering how Lois died."

Clark was silent for a moment before answering, "I don't know. I knew what I had to do — I couldn't sit and watch her suffer — but then … I didn't have to do anything. She just … died. I don't know how. I was just glad she was no longer suffering."

"Well, you had half of Panem in tears."

"Because they didn't see her die?" Clark looked at Caesar in confusion.

"No … because of her death. It was a first for the Hunger Games — a tragic love story. Star-crossed lovers from separate districts meeting in the Games and defending each other to the end, even when the tragic outcome was inevitable."

Clark was startled, though he took pains to hide his feelings. _[i]People thought it was a love story? It was brutal and painful … I had to kill my best friend to keep her from dying in agony. I'll never be able to forget that moment — but it wasn't a love story. It was two people who became friends and tried to do what was right, even under the worst of circumstances.[/i]_

Clark could not allow himself to think that he might have felt more for Lois than friendship — it hurt too much to contemplate. It was hard enough to live with the knowledge that he had killed a friend, even if it was to spare her further pain. The idea that he might have been responsible for the death of someone he loved was more than he could bear.

To Caesar he said, "She was a good person, full of life. She had compassion for those weaker than her. I did everything I could for her — until there was nothing left that I could do."

Caesar was so moved by Clark's words that he had to take a moment before continuing. The rest of the interview passed quickly, touching on Becky's death, Platinum's attack on Clark, and Lysander's death.

Clark barely suppressed a sigh of relief when Caesar signed off, ending the final interview. As the cameras were shut off and taken away, Clark walked over to his mentors.

"You made it," Haver said. "The Capitol loves you." Leaning close, he whispered, "That'll go a long way towards keeping you safe."

Clark nodded. "Now what?"

"Now you collect your belongings from your room. A car will be here soon to take us to the train station."

A short time later, Clark was standing in front of the Training Center with his mentors. Marcius, who would be accompanying them back to District 9, was talking to their driver.

Clark reached into his pocket, pulling out the picture of his family and looking at it. It was the only thing, besides the clothes Rosaline had given him for his final interview, that he was taking home with him.

_[i]Home[/i]_. It seemed unreal. He had only been away for three weeks, but District 9 and the life he'd had before the Hunger Games seemed like a distant dream. What would he face when he came home? What would it be like?

Haver tapped on his shoulder, gesturing for him to get into the car. Clark complied, watching as the windows darkened so he couldn't see where the car was taking him. It didn't matter, of course — he'd seen the route from the train station to the Training Center the fateful night he'd flown over the Capitol and hit the force field.

He didn't say anything, though, or ask any questions. He knew that the Capitol tried to keep everyone from the districts, even victors, ignorant of the city's geography so they couldn't tell tributes where to go if they escaped from the Training Center.

Before long, the car arrived at the train station. Clark stepped into the train, watching as it started to move, carrying him away from the Capitol and back to his old life.

As the train entered the tunnel through the mountains, Clark went to his room. Closing the door behind him, he pushed down his glasses, then looked through the walls at Becky's room. It was neat and spotless, with no sign that she had ever been there. Next year, another girl would occupy her room for the brief trip to the Capitol, and another boy would occupy Clark's room. Clark himself would be a mentor, trying to find a way to keep the kids alive against all odds.

The clothes he had worn for the Reaping were sitting in the middle of the bed, clean and pressed. Slowly, Clark removed the fancy interview clothes and changed into his old District 9 attire. Then he tucked his token into his pocket and rejoined the others.

The train was moving much faster now than it had on the way to the Capitol. Puzzled, Clark asked Marcius about it.

"When you were going to the Capitol, the train's speed was set so that all of the tributes would arrive within an hour of each other. Since Districts 11 and 12 are so far from the Capitol, that means early morning on the day after the Reaping. Going home, the train goes at full speed. You'll be home by early evening."

Clark looked out the window as the mountains disappeared and the wide, rolling plains flashed by. He remembered the day he had run alongside a train — a youthful impulse that had ultimately wound up betraying him to Snow. He had been too young then to realize the potential consequences of his actions, but now they had come back to haunt him, and as a result, he would have to take great care in the future for the sake of everyone he cared about.

Sometime later, the train slowed as it moved through the populated areas of District 9. Clark stood at the window, looking out and seeing the occasional house and barn amongst the fields of grain. Some people were still working in the fading light of early evening. They looked up and pointed as the train rumbled past.

Clark looked out at them, at the familiar people and land of his district. He was almost home — but what did that mean now? Would he appear as different to people as he felt? Would he still be a member of the community like he had been before, or would people treat him differently? All of them had watched the Hunger Games — they'd had no choice in the matter. All of them would have seen what he had done to survive, some of it things that would be considered entirely wrong here.

What did his parents think of him? They'd spent years teaching him to be kind and compassionate, but now they'd seen him kill another person. What did the Rasens think? Were they glad that District 9 had a victor this year, or did they blame him for not saving their daughter? Would his friends view him as they had before? What would Rachel think of him now? Did she believe that what she'd seen growing between him and Lois was a tragic love?

Not only did Clark wonder how people would view him, but he wondered how he would view them. Would he be able to live amongst them normally, or would the Games always haunt him? He would never be able to forget Becky or Lois, and what he'd done to Lysander would stay with him forever. Would he be able to see them as the people he'd grown up with, or would he see them as potential victims of the Capitol?

Though he'd watched the Hunger Games every year of his life, it wasn't the same as actually living through it. What he'd seen and done would be with him for a lifetime, and he didn't know if things could ever truly return to normal.

Haver and Matilda came to stand beside him as the train pulled into the District 9 station. Haver put a hand on Clark's shoulder.

"Eventually, it will get easier," he told the young man.

Matilda shook her head sadly. "No, it won't."

Silently, the three of them went to greet the crowd gathered around the station, waiting to welcome back their victor.


	21. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

A cheer arose from the crowd as Clark and his mentors exited the train. Several reporters from the Capitol stood on the platform with their cameras trained on them. Clark smiled, somewhat more genuinely this time, and turned to look at the crowd.

The cheering of the District 9 crowd didn't bother him nearly as much as the cheers of the Capitolites. Clark sensed that the people cheering for him now were happy to have him home, rather than being thrilled at seeing the winner of a violent game like the Capitolites had been. It had been a long time since District 9 had had a victor, and the residents of the district were glad to have someone come home alive, rather than in one of the plain wooden caskets provided by the Capitol for deceased Hunger Games tributes.

Clark looked past the Peacekeepers standing between the crowd and the platform. His parents stood near the steps, the joy on their faces unmistakable. Pete, Lana, and Rachel stood near them. Pete and Lana were holding hands and cheering for him, but Rachel stood back, looking at him with uncertainty and a touch of sadness.

Most of the people from the town and the nearby farms had come to see him arrive home. Clark looked around, but saw no sign of the Rasens. He didn't blame them — if it had been Becky who had come home, his parents would almost certainly have found it too painful to come to greet her, knowing that her life meant the death of their son.

Clark knew almost everyone in the crowd, at least in passing, and as he looked at families grouped together, he felt a wave of sorrow, knowing that next year, and every year after that, he would be escorting two of their children away. At least one family every year would be left mourning the loss of a child.

He was suddenly grateful that he was finished with school — at least he wouldn't have to walk amongst the potential tributes every day, wondering which two he would be taking to their deaths the following summer. He knew that Haver had won at age sixteen and had dropped out of school soon afterwards — possibly because he couldn't bear seeing, and perhaps becoming friends with, the kids he would have to watch die.

The Peacekeepers standing between the crowd and the platform stepped aside when Clark came down the steps. Jonathan and Martha rushed forward, embracing their son as he stepped onto the ground.

"Clark, you're home!" Martha wept with joy as she hugged him tightly.

"We weren't sure we'd see you again," Jonathan added.

"I'm glad to be home." Clark's voice was subdued, but he hugged his parents back, taking care not to embrace them too hard.

The Kents stood that way for a few minutes before Clark approached his friends. They hung back, waiting for him to approach them, and he wondered if he appeared as different to them as he felt. He knew that he'd changed in the weeks he'd been away, that he'd done and survived things that had once been unthinkable. In addition, with President Snow's threats hanging over his head, Clark couldn't help thinking about what might happen to them. In his mind's eye, he saw his friends and parents dead, tortured, made into Avoxes … and he feared that what he imagined was nothing in comparison to the reality.

Clark knew that whatever he did, he had to protect those he cared about — and those strangers whose lives were also in danger. He didn't know what Snow expected, or how he would go about keeping people safe, but he had to try. For the moment, it seemed like the best course of action was to pretend that everything was normal.

"Pete!" Clark walked up to his friend and leaned close. "Did you ask her?" Clark whispered, glancing at Lana.

"She asked me," Pete confessed. "When the Peacekeepers took you and Becky away, she told me that life was too short to hesitate and proposed to me."

"And?"

"And I said yes. What did you think I said?" Pete put an arm around Lana. "We aren't married yet, though. We decided to wait until …"

"… until the Games were over?" Clark asked.

"Yeah … after all, you did say you expected to be invited to the wedding."

Pete didn't mention that none of them had really believed that Clark would come home. In spite of their words before Clark had left, they had all known that the odds were seldom in District 9's favor. When Clark had come so close to being killed in the bloodbath, they had tried to prepare themselves for the inevitable. Their friend would die, and as soon as the Games were over his body would be returned to District 9. There would be a short, unceremonious funeral, as there had been for Becky and for a hundred and twenty-nine other tributes over the years since the Hunger Games had begun, and they would try to move on without him.

Pete, Lana, and Rachel had discussed what they could do to help the Kents after the Games. The Rasens had other children to comfort them after they lost Becky, but Clark was the Kents' only child. In addition, the future would be grim for Jonathan and Martha if they lost their son. There were no pensions for the elderly or disabled, and the poverty that most people lived in made it impossible to save for the future — all of a family's resources were needed to keep them alive in the present. When a person no longer had the strength to work, they had to rely upon other family members to take care of them. If a person had no children, or their children couldn't or wouldn't provide for them, they were often left to starve.

It wouldn't have been an immediate problem for the Kents — they were still fairly young and healthy — but eventually, if they had lived long enough to no longer be able to work their farm, they would have been left in the same position as many another childless couple before them. Starvation was seldom formally acknowledged as a cause of death, with the death certificate stating that the person had died from disease or exposure, but people generally knew the real reason.

Clark's three young friends had resolved amongst themselves to help the Kents in their old age if they were able, since the odds of Clark coming back alive were so poor. All of them had spent time at the Kent home, where Jonathan and Martha had proven kind and generous even in the face of sometimes crushing poverty. Clark's friends would not leave them to starve if they could help it.

All of them had watched the bloodbath with grim fascination, seeing how sick Clark was — a subject his parents had danced around when asked about it. When Platinum had attacked him in spite of his efforts to escape, it had been widely assumed that he would be killed. Then Lois had intervened and Clark had been able to escape into the brush. Later, they had watched as Lois and Clark fought, then decided to become allies — even if they didn't call it an alliance.

Rachel had watched with dismay as Lois and Clark grew closer. She wasn't sure that it was the tragic love story that many people had assumed it to be, but she also hadn't been happy with how close the pair of tributes had become. There was definitely something between them, even if it wasn't a doomed love.

When Lois had kissed Clark just before her death, Pete and Lana had turned from watching the Games to watching Rachel to see what her reaction would be. "They're friends," Rachel had told them. "Like that girl said, they're friends. Clark always was kind to everyone …" After that, she had refused to say anything more on the subject.

Now, Clark approached Rachel slowly, not sure what she would think of him — or how he felt about her, for that matter. She watched him coming towards her, but made no move to close the distance.

"Rachel," Clark said when he finally reached her. "I …"

"You … you made it home," Rachel replied. "We hoped you would, but …"

"I didn't think I'd make it home," Clark answered.

"Yes … the odds weren't in your favor." Rachel started to say more, but stopped when Clark turned to look at the camera crew that was focusing on them.

Keeping his voice low, Clark said, "I think we need to talk … but not here. Later, when there's more privacy …"

Rachel frowned, but nodded. "Sure … you wouldn't want to destroy the tragic romance angle," she whispered, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Louder, she said, "I'm glad you're back. I need to get home now, though. Mom needs my help." She turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Clark watched her go, sighing inwardly. Rachel was upset about Lois, as he'd suspected she would be. He wanted to reassure her, but he wasn't sure himself how he felt.

He turned back to Pete, Lana, and his parents. They were watching him expressionlessly.

_Does everyone think Lois and I were in love?_ he wondered. _Do they really think I threw Rachel over for a girl I barely knew? I never promised Rachel anything._

Rachel had made a promise to him, though, and he suddenly realized how much it must have hurt her to see him with Lois. He and Lois had been friends and allies, but to Rachel, it must have looked like much more. He'd killed another tribute to save Lois's life, he'd shared his own meager food and clothing to keep her alive, and he'd kissed her good-bye just before her death. Had their roles been reversed — had he seen Rachel with a male tribute — he might have been upset, too.

Marcius interrupted his thoughts. "Your house in Victor's Village should be ready for you — the Capitol sent people to fix it up as soon as you were declared victor. You're home sooner than most victors, but it should still be ready." Marcius signaled to the camera crew to follow them. "If you'll follow me, Clark …"

"Wait." Clark went back to his parents and friends. "Why don't you come with us? I'd like for you to see it."

Pete shook his head. "It's getting kind of late, Clark, and I have to get home."

Lana nodded, taking Pete's hand. "So do I." At Clark's hurt look, she added, "We'll come see you tomorrow, or maybe the next day — after the festivities are over."

Clark sighed. "Sure. I'll see you then." He watched as they walked away, and then turned to his parents. "What about you? Don't you want to see the new house?"

Jonathan patted his son's shoulder. "Sure we do."

Martha nodded her agreement. "Of course we want to see your new home."

Marcius nodded approvingly. "It's not as big as some homes in the Capitol, but there's still plenty of space, and of course you can bring your family to live with you if you want."

Clark nodded, and the Kents followed Marcius in the direction of Victor's Village.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

It was dark by the time Marcius, the Kents, and the camera crew reached Victor's Village, which was located about half a mile outside of town. There were twelve large houses, three on each side of the village green. Only two of the houses had ever been inhabited — one by the first District 9 victor and his wife and children and later by Matilda and her husband, and the house next to it by Haver.

Clark's house was next to Haver's. All of the empty houses and their yards, plus the green, were maintained by a groundskeeper and a maintenance worker who were paid by the Capitol. The occupied houses could also be maintained by the same people, but all of the victors had chosen to keep as much privacy as possible and only allowed the maintenance worker in for major repairs.

Haver's house was easy to identify by the smell — thirty-five years of magic grass smoke had permeated the walls. It had a somewhat rundown, abandoned appearance to it, despite being lived in. Obviously, maintaining his home was not high on Haver's list of priorities.

Matilda's house was in better repair, largely due to the efforts of her husband, Sid, who repainted it every few years and took care of the yard. Matilda made occasional stabs at housekeeping, but was frequently distracted by morphling, which she could easily afford to buy from the town's only pharmacist.

Much to Clark's surprise, all of the lights were on in his house when they arrived. The electricity didn't always work on the farm — the only time it could be relied upon was during mandatory viewing of the Games.

Marcius unlocked the front door, then handed Clark the keys. "Don't lose them," he told Clark. "There's no telling how long it will take to get new ones in a place like this."

This was another surprise for Clark — there were no locks on the doors on the farm. When he had been in the Capitol, the concept of locking his bedroom door had been strange to him, allowing Marcius and his prep team to walk in on him unexpectedly several times. It was only after the Games that Clark had thought to lock the door, wanting whatever privacy he could get.

Marcius led the Kents inside. The camera crew followed them, spreading out to film each room. Only one cameraman stayed to film the Kents and Marcius.

Clark walked around, looking at the large rooms and the expensive furnishings. The Kents' entire farmhouse could have fit into the living room, and any one of the pieces of furniture probably cost more than Clark's parents saw in a good year. The kitchen was stocked with dishes and flatware with the Capitol seal on them, and the stove was electric, rather than coal-burning. There was a refrigerator and a freezer, both filled with food, and a pantry off the kitchen was fully stocked with non-perishable goods. Both hot and cold water flowed from the taps, and there were controls that allowed the house to be heated or air conditioned as desired — luxuries very few people in District 9 had access to.

There was a total of eight rooms in the house, not counting the two indoor bathrooms — something else the Kent farm didn't have. There were four bedrooms upstairs, plus one of the bathrooms. Downstairs, there was a living room with a fireplace, the kitchen, a dining room, and a study with a desk and a bookcase full of Capitol-approved reading material.

Clark was silent as he walked around, looking at everything. He climbed the ladder at the end of the upstairs hallway, looking around the small, rough-looking attic. Then he went down to the basement, which was equally rough-looking but considerably cooler. He looked curiously at some machinery in the basement while Marcius shook his head in exasperation and explained how a washing machine and dryer worked — something Clark had never learned on the farm, as laundry there was washed by hand and dried on the clothesline or hung on lines inside the main room of the house when it was too cold or rainy to dry outside.

Jonathan and Martha followed Clark, looking around their son's new home. They had expected that he would be leaving sometime after his last Reaping and moving into a place of his own, probably with a wife, but they hadn't expected him to have a house in Victor's Village. Though not as elaborate as some of the Capitol houses shown on television, it was still fancier than anything either of them could ever have aspired to. For the Kents, making sure the roof didn't leak and the dust and vermin were cleaned out of the house was the best they could do.

A quick walk through the dark backyard revealed a storm cellar against the back wall of the house and a wide expanse of lawn and shade trees. Marcius narrowed his eyes at Clark as they walked along.

"A great deal of work went into landscaping the yard. I hope you don't plan to ruin the landscapers' hard work."

"I'm not interested in growing magic grass, if that's what you're saying," Clark replied. He had never tried smoking the herb, but was reasonably certain it would have no effect on him anyway.

Marcius nodded, looking pleased, then scowled when Clark went on, "I may trying planting a vegetable garden in the spring, though, and maybe putting some fruit trees in the front yard."

"I don't know why the Capitol even bothers with doing so much for you outer district barbarians," Marcius mumbled. Clark heard him clearly, but said nothing.

A Peacekeeper from town and an Avox from the train were in the house when the group came back in. The Peacekeeper hefted a bag of coins and put it on the kitchen table, while the Avox set a suitcase containing the clothes Rosaline had designed for Clark on a chair.

"Your first month's winnings," the Peacekeeper explained to Clark.

Clark looked at the amount printed on the bag. It was more than his parents had earned in their best year of farming. "First _month's_?" he asked, a bit confused. He knew that victors received a lot of money, but that was far more than he'd ever seen at once.

"Yes," Marcius explained. "Every month for as long as you live, you'll receive another bag of coins containing the same amount. The Capitol is generous with its victors."

Clark shook his head. "It's too much."

"It's the amount you're entitled to!" Marcius snapped, not understanding Clark's attitude. "I know there isn't much to buy here, but if you want something you can't get in District 9, you can look it up in the catalog in the study and call an order in to the Capitol. You use a telephone for that," he added. "Do you need me to show you how it works?"

"I know how a telephone works!" Clark snapped back. The Kents had never had a telephone, but most of the factories and other businesses in town had them, as did the mayor, the Peacekeepers, and the offices at the Justice Building. District 9 kids were taught to use them in school, since most of them had no telephone at home.

Marcius gave him an annoyed look, then pointed to the bag of coins. "That contains coins from the smallest denomination to the largest. It would be easier if you outer district people would use paper money, but it doesn't seem to meet your approval."

"A few people do use paper money in District 9, but most people don't have enough money for it to matter. Besides, paper money wears out fast. Coins can be used for decades." Clark returned Marcius's annoyed look.

Jonathan cleared his throat. "This is an interesting debate, but it's after nine and your mother and I have to be up early. We need to get going."

Clark gave them a shocked look. "What?! Aren't you staying? I mean … there's plenty of space!"

"Clark, it's three miles from here to the farm. We have to be up early to take care of the animals — and it's harvest season. We can't stay here."

"But …" Clark stared at them, not sure what to say. "Well, then … I'll come with you."

Marcius shook his head. "You have to live here. They can come live with you, but you have to stay here."

"Why?"

"That's the rule. This is your house. You have to live in it."

"But …" Clark turned to his parents. "So … after the harvest, you'll be moving here, won't you? This house is so much bigger than yours …"

Jonathan shook his head. "Clark, we have a farm to run. We can't do that from here. We'll come to visit as often as we can, but this is your home now. Besides, you won't want us around for long. You'll want to get married and start a family soon enough … Rachel may be upset with you now, but she'll come around."

"Dad!" Clark turned red. "It's not … I mean …" He turned to his mother. "What about you, Mom? Wouldn't you like to live in a house that's not drafty and … and …"

"Clark." Martha put her arms around her son. "We're just glad you came home. We knew you had a chance, but we couldn't be sure you'd come back. Your life is going to be different now, but you're going to be okay. We'd stay with you for a while if we could, but it just isn't practical to walk to and from here every day to work on the farm — especially during harvest season. Maybe in the winter, though, we can come here for a while — if you still want us to. The animals will still need care, but it'll be less work than in the summer."

"Of course I'll still want you to!" Clark took a deep breath, suppressing his disappointment. When he'd imagined coming home, he hadn't thought he'd suddenly be living alone in a strange house. Once he would have jumped at the chance to be on his own, but right now he wanted the comforting presence of his parents. After the horrors of the Games and President Snow's threats, Clark had come to a greater understanding of how precious those he cared about were. "I'll see you in the morning, then — I'll come and help with the chores." He turned and looked at Marcius. "Does that meet with your approval?" he asked sarcastically.

"You can do what you want … just remember that there's a banquet at twelve for you at the mayor's house. The guest list is already set, so don't invite anyone, and don't be late. Tomorrow evening there'll be a dinner for the whole district, spread out through the town square and the streets. There'll be entertainers from the Capitol, too. You need to be there, as well. It's not mandatory for everyone in District 9 to show up, but not many people will want to miss it. The next day will be Parcel Day. Every family will get bags of grain, cans of oil, and lots of other foods. This will go on every month for a year. It's customary for victors to help with Parcel Day."

Clark vaguely remembered the last Victory dinner in District 9. He'd been five years old when Matilda had won, old enough to enjoy the show put on for the children, but not old enough to really comprehend what it was for. He mostly remembered the plates heaped high with food, enough that they'd been able to fill their stomachs and take the leftovers home for lunch the next day.

"I'll be ready," he told Marcius. Turning away from the man, he hugged his parents. "I'll see you first thing tomorrow," he told them. "Hold on a minute …" Clark hurried down to the basement and took a flashlight from a shelf. He brought it back to the kitchen and gave it to his parents. "Take this. It'll make it safer to walk back to the house." Clark had never had any trouble wandering District 9 at night, but his parents couldn't see as well at night as he could, and they couldn't move nearly as fast as him, either.

After the elder Kents left, the camera crew started packing up their equipment. Clark leaned against the counter, watching them, until they left, taking Marcius, the Peacekeeper, and the Avox with them.

It felt strange to be alone. Clark had never had an entire house to himself at night before. Even at the Training Center, with its semi-soundproofed rooms, he'd known that there were other people around. It was quiet — so quiet that he used his superhearing to listen for what was happening outside, then quickly stopped, his face turning red, as he realized he'd overheard an intimate moment between Matilda and Sid.

It was strange to live so close to his neighbors. The Kent farm was more than three miles from town, and their nearest neighbors, the Irigs, were a mile from them. District 9 was large and sprawling, and only Clark's superspeed had allowed him to explore all of it.

Slowly, Clark went upstairs, looking into each of the bedrooms and trying to decide which one he wanted to sleep in. All of them were furnished, the beds made up with the finest linens and warm blankets and bedspreads. None had the comfortable familiarity of his small bedroom on the farm with its narrow bed, worn blankets and linens, and homemade quilt.

Finally, he selected the second-largest bedroom, leaving the largest for his parents if they came to stay in the winter. It was as big as four of his bedrooms on the farm and contained a queen-sized bed — he decided that since he had these things, he might as well enjoy them.

It was a long time before Clark fell asleep, though. He was home, but as he'd feared, nothing was like it had been before.

* * *

The next morning, Clark arrived at the farm just before dawn. When he didn't find his parents in the house, he set down the sack of food he had brought and walked towards the barn.

Long before he reached it, Clark heard the sound of angry voices. He stopped, listening more closely, then wished he hadn't as he realized that they were arguing about him.

"Jonathan, our son needs us! Didn't you see the look on his face when you said we had to get home?"

"He can take care of himself, Martha! He wouldn't be alive if he couldn't. The animals can't take care of themselves, and neither can the crops. It's harvest time! You know that!"

"Yes, he can take care of himself — physically, anyway! He's hurting, though. You saw his face when he killed that boy — our son isn't a killer! I don't know what would have happened if that girl hadn't been there for him. And his face after she died and he was declared victor — I've never seen anyone look so sad and resigned."

"He _is_ a killer — the Games left him no choice. That's what the Games do, Martha … they kill twenty-three kids and destroy the one who survives."

"All the more reason we should be there for him!"

"We will be there for him — but we also have a farm to run! Clark knows that!"

"He could get us here and back in a flash!"

"And he'd be in danger of being found out, which would jeopardize not only his life, but our lives, his friends' lives — hell, it would endanger everyone in District 9!"

Clark didn't wait to hear more. Hurrying forward, he stepped into the barn. "Mom? Dad?"

"Clark!" Martha turned to her son. "When did you get here?"

"A couple of minutes ago."

"So you heard —" Jonathan began.

"I heard you talking," Clark said. "Dad, it's okay. I understand why you have to stay here. I'll come out to help every day during the harvest, and I'll help with the chores in the morning and evening. I'm only required to sleep in my house — what I do the rest of the time is my own business."

Clark looked at his mother. "Mom, I'll be fine. My Games are over. I never have to return to the arena … I'll never have to … to kill anyone again." Even as he said the words, Clark wondered if they were true. What did Snow have in mind for him and his powers? What would he have to do keep those he cared about safe? He wanted to tell his parents about Snow's threats, discuss with them how he should handle it — but he was afraid that it would cost them their lives.

"If you want to stay with me in the winter, though, I'd like you to. I'll come out here to take care of the animals — the cold doesn't bother me, and the snow doesn't get in my way. Now …" He changed the subject. "… the animals are hungry and the cows need milking. Also, I brought some potatoes, onions, bacon, and flour from the house — I thought we could have breakfast before I leave. I've got a lot to do today, but I still have time to eat with you … if you want me to …"

"Of course we do!" Jonathan clapped his son on the shoulder.

Martha nodded, though she still looked upset. "I'll go start breakfast, then."

After Martha left, Clark looked at his father uneasily. "Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"There's nothing to apologize for. Your mother is worried about you after what you went through … and so am I. You've always wanted to help people, not hurt them. When you were Reaped, we worried about what the Games would do to you — if you survived. You're one of the least violent victors the Games have ever had … only one kill, and that looked to be an accident." Jonathan turned and reached for a pitchfork, then turned back to his son. "Was it an accident, son?"

"Yes," Clark replied quietly. "It didn't occur to me that shoving him could kill him. I didn't think about where he'd land if he fell, and I didn't think to use my X-ray vision to make sure it was safe."

"You didn't have a choice, you know … if you hadn't shoved him away, he would have killed the girl … Lois. You're just lucky you didn't have to kill her in the end."

Clark turned away, floating in the direction of the hayloft. "Yeah … lucky."

They worked in silence after that, though they'd often talked while doing the chores before. Jonathan had questions, but wasn't sure how to ask them, and Clark didn't really want to talk about the Games. He was beginning to understand what Haver meant about only a victor being able to understand another victor, and he hated the rift he felt growing between him and his parents.

When they went to the house after the chores were done, Martha had prepared a large breakfast — much larger than they usually had. When the two men stopped to stare at the full platters, Martha excused herself for cooking so much.

"Clark did bring food, Jonathan, and what we don't eat now we can eat tomorrow."

"I just hope we can afford this," Jonathan replied, though he looked hungrily at the platters.

"It's our boy's first day home. He needs a good meal."

"Don't worry about the cost," Clark interjected. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of coins. "This should be enough to feed you for a month, plus tomorrow is Parcel Day and it's harvest time. Also, there should be plenty of food at the banquet today and at the Victory dinner."

"Clark, we can't take your money." Jonathan shook his head.

"I want you to have it. I'll give you more next month. I'd give you more now, but … last night I went through the bag of money and set aside just enough for my living expenses for this month and enough for you to buy food. I'm giving the rest to the Rasens. There were eleven people in the family — ten, now that Becky's gone — and they never had enough to eat. Becky was only thirteen, but she had her name in the Reaping bowl twenty-four times — eleven times each year for tesserae to feed her family, along with the two times her name would have been in it anyway.

"The odds were never in her favor, but I can make things easier for her siblings — if I give them a month's winnings each year, they should have enough food that the older ones won't have to take out any more tesserae, and the younger ones will never have to take it at all. This isn't a full month's winnings, but with Parcel Day each month, they should have enough."

Martha smiled and embraced her son. "Jonathan, we raised a good boy."

"That we did, Martha." Jonathan hugged them both.

"It won't make up for losing Becky, or for the fact that I failed to protect her," Clark said, "but it might help keep them from losing another child to the Games, and they'll have enough to eat."

"Failed to protect her?" Jonathan shook his head. "Clark, you couldn't have saved her. She was very ill — we went to see her family after she died, and though they were heartbroken, they weren't surprised. They just wished she could have passed away peacefully at home, rather than in the arena."

"Clark, you made her last days better than they would have been otherwise," Martha added. "Everyone saw how you made her the center of attention during the tribute parade — she looked happy then. And when you tried to help her during the interviews, people were shocked, but we knew you couldn't sit back and watch her suffer."

"I wasn't with her when she died," Clark whispered.

"You couldn't have been, Clark. You know that. If you'd stepped off your launch plate, you would have died, and it wouldn't have helped her in the slightest." Martha hugged him tighter. "We were terrified when we saw the girl with the Kryptonite jewelry, especially when she went after you. If Lois hadn't come to your defense …"

"I know. I would have been killed." Clark didn't want to talk about Lois. Changing the subject, he said, "Mom, you've made this great breakfast — we should eat it before it gets cold."

Recognizing that Clark didn't want to talk about the Games anymore, Martha let him go and went to serve the food. Before Clark sat down, he reached into another pocket and pulled out his token.

"I managed to hold onto it in the arena, Dad, so you can have it back." He handed the photo to Jonathan.

Jonathan shook his head. "It's yours now, Clark." He pressed it back into his son's hand. "You carried it all through the Games and brought it home. If you'd died, we would have taken it back to remember you by, but since you survived and kept it safe, that makes it yours."

"No, Dad. You carried it for luck all those years …"

"And it was lucky … for you. You're still alive. You keep it, Clark. We had that portrait taken when you were twelve — maybe, after the harvest is done, we can get a new one taken."

Clark looked at the small, framed photo in his hand and slowly put it back in his pocket. "Sure, Dad. That would be nice."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

After leaving his parents' house, Clark walked slowly down the road, a small bundle containing the few personal belongings he was able to carry in one hand. He was distracted because he had a lot on his mind.

Conversation at breakfast had been strained. Someone would start to speak, realize where the comment was going, and fall silent. Clark didn't want to discuss the arena he had left less than a week earlier, nor did he want to think about Snow's threats. He wanted to talk about ordinary things and everyday life, but he'd been gone for three weeks, and in that time, his life had changed immensely.

There had been things he hadn't wanted to discuss with his parents for years — he was growing up, after all, and had been pulling away from them and growing closer to his peers in preparation to live his own life. This new gulf between him and his parents was sudden and unexpected, though, and not something he was happy about.

Clark couldn't explain why his new house felt so strange and unwelcoming — it didn't feel like home. He supposed he would get used to it eventually, but for now it felt no more like home than his room at the Training Center had. The place was quiet and unfamiliar, even vaguely threatening.

He had been awakened abruptly the night before when a nightmare had sent him plunging to the floor, halfway across the room from his bed. He had panicked at first, kicking the bedding away, convinced that he was still in the arena and that his secret was now out to all of Panem.

When Clark had awakened fully, he had realized that he was on the floor of his bedroom in his house in Victor's Village, safe from the arena and the cameras. Then he had wondered if he really was safe from cameras, and had gone through the house, searching every nook and cranny for cameras and listening devices.

There were no cameras, but he had found several microphones, all of which he had shorted out with his heat vision, and a couple of portable bugs, one of which he'd crushed to dust between his fingers and the other of which he'd affixed, with a flash of juvenile humor, to the underside of the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. Clark knew the Capitol would be suspicious if no sound came from any of the microphones, but he wasn't about to give those listening the satisfaction of hearing anything useful.

After that, he'd tried to go back to sleep, but after tossing and turning for an hour, he'd gotten up and unpacked the clothes Rosaline had sent home with him, then sorted through the bag of money. Still unable to sleep, he'd gone outside and had been surprised to find that he wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep — Haver had been sitting on the porch of his own house, smoking a magic grass cigarette. Clark had thought about going over to say hello, but had decided against it and instead had wandered through the yard of his new house, inspecting everything in the faint light of the moon and stars, which he could see reasonably well by. He'd really wanted to go for a long run, or better yet, go flying, but given that he was currently in the spotlight, he'd decided that it was best not to risk being seen where he shouldn't be.

Now, Clark went inside his house and put away the few items he had brought from the farm. Even without using superspeed, it took only a few minutes to put everything away. All he had were a few articles of clothing and two cheap paperback books he'd obtained as a child — one a book of poetry that he'd won in a contest at school and one an adventure novel that his parents had bought for him after a particularly good harvest. It had never occurred to him before that he owned so little — few people in District 9 had much, and the fact that Clark possessed two changes of clothes besides the ones he was wearing, plus a warm coat that fit him far more tightly now than it had two years earlier when his mother had made it for him, had made him feel like he had plenty.

Indeed, he had more than many kids, and because the cold didn't bother him, he'd often lent his coat to Rachel — all she had was a worn sweater that didn't keep the chill out. He supposed that this was one of the things that had brought them together, though at the time he'd regarded it as simply helping out a friend.

Clark knew that he would have to talk to Rachel soon, though he wasn't looking forward to that conversation. He knew she was upset with him — how upset, he wasn't sure. He'd never made any promises to her, although in retrospect he could see why she thought things might be going beyond friendship. He also wondered if his other friends were angry with him on Rachel's behalf — they'd certainly wanted to get away from him as fast as they could the night before.

Clark wanted to go to them, to find out exactly what was going on, but at the same time, he wasn't sure he'd like the answer and wanted to put it off as long as possible. He had other things he needed to do, but eventually he would have to face his friends and find out where he stood. The Games had changed many things for him, and so far, most of them didn't seem to be for the better.

*****

Around nine o'clock that morning, Clark opened the door of the apartment building next to the factory where the Rasens worked. Ordinarily, they would have been at work by now, but because of his victory, the whole district had the day off.

It was a mixed blessing. People appreciated the break from the hard work that characterized their lives, but they didn't appreciate the loss of a day's wages. For those already living close to the edge, that loss could mean starvation, freezing to death in the winter because they couldn't afford coal for their stoves, or being evicted from their homes because they couldn't pay the rent. The Victory dinner and Parcel Day helped to alleviate the strain by providing food, but it was still hard on people.

Losing Becky was a significant financial blow to the Rasens as well as an emotional one. Her tesserae rations had been cut off when she'd been Reaped, meaning less food for her family, and her meager wages were gone, too, as were the few extra coins she'd managed to earn on occasion by fixing broken equipment. During training for the Games, Becky had told Clark that the factory foreman sometimes gave her a little extra money for fixing things, which allowed her family to enjoy such luxuries as a small tin of meat — about the only meat they ever got. If the head of the household died, their family got a one-month pension to help them survive. No such help was given when a family lost a child, even if the child was one of the providers.

The Rasens lived on the fourth floor of the building. There were no elevators, though the building was ten stories high. Clark had no trouble climbing the three flights of stairs, but he wondered how Becky, who had been so sickly, had managed it. Had someone carried her, or had she had to stop and rest a lot?

When Clark reached the Rasens' apartment, he hesitated a moment, unsure of his reception. Then, firming his resolve, he knocked on the door. Some families were out, enjoying the day off, but the Rasens, grieving for the loss of Becky, were gathered together at home. Even without using his superhearing, Clark could hear their voices through the thin wall.

The door was flung open. A boy of about seven looked up at Clark and then slammed the door in his face. Clark could hear him stomping across the floor as he announced, "There's no one there, Mom!"

Clark sighed, guessing that this was the brother who had given Becky her token. Belatedly, he wondered if he should have bought a new toy for the child, then wondered if such a gift might be considered inappropriate under the circumstances.

Undeterred, he knocked on the door again. This time, it was answered by a woman with graying hair and a careworn face — Becky's mother. She looked surprised to see him, but held the door open so he could come in.

"Clark, come in. Have a seat." She gestured to an empty chair at the table.

Uncomfortably, Clark sat down at the narrow, crowded table. From the way people looked at him, he thought it was safe to assume that he was sitting in Becky's seat.

"Go away!" The boy who had first answered the door marched over to Clark and tried to push him out of the chair.

"Billy!" his mother scolded. "Go sit down! Clark is a guest!"

"He's not supposed to be here! Becky is!"

"Billy, Becky's gone. You know that."

"It's his fault!" the boy shouted, his eyes filling with tears. "I hate him!" Billy ran into the smaller second room where the family slept, slamming the door behind him.

Clark stood up. "I … I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come …" He looked at the bag of coins in his hand, wishing he'd asked his parents to bring it instead.

Mrs. Rasen shook her head. "Billy and Becky were very close. He's having a hard time accepting that his sister is … dead."

"Was he the one who gave her the ball?"

"Yes. The Capitol returned a few fragments of it, along with Becky's body. The pieces were buried with her." Mrs. Rasen's voice was dull.

Clark looked around at the assembled members of Becky's family. Six young faces looked back at him — Becky's siblings, minus Billy. Becky had been the fourth of nine children. The eldest, a girl, had been in Clark's class in school, though she was three months younger than him and would be eligible for the Reaping for another year. The second eldest, a boy, had died in infancy. There was a fifteen-year-old boy, the one Becky had compared Clark to when she was teasing him about Lois. Becky had also had a twelve-year-old sister. She and her oldest sister were still feeling guilty about not volunteering in Becky's place. There were also four children too young for the Reaping — two girls, ages eight and ten, Billy, and a three-year-old boy who sat in the lap of a skeletally thin old woman. Becky's father sat beside the old woman. All of the Rasens wore bands of black fabric on their upper left arms, traditional symbols of mourning in District 9.

At Mrs. Rasen's urging, Clark sat back down. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I can cook something if you are."

Clark shook his head, glad that he had eaten before coming to visit. He doubted the Rasens could afford to feed a guest without going hungry themselves. "No … I had breakfast with my parents. I just came to … to visit, and to say how sorry I am I wasn't able to protect her, and …"

"You couldn't have saved her, Clark." Mr. Rasen spoke for the first time. "Frankly, we're surprised she lasted that long. She was sick last winter, so sick that we thought we'd lose her then. Somehow, she managed to pull through, but we knew it was only a matter of time. It would have been easier on her if she'd died here instead of in the arena, but we still would have lost her."

Clark nodded slowly, thinking of how badly damaged Becky's lungs had looked. "She was scared — really scared. She knew she didn't have a chance, and she was afraid of me at first. I promised her that I wouldn't hurt her, and I tried to help her — but in the end, there was nothing I could do."

"Your parents came here as soon as mandatory viewing at the beginning of the Games was over," Mrs. Rasen said. "They were afraid for you, too — but they came to see us because we'd lost our daughter. They came to her funeral, too, after the Games were over and her … her body had been sent back to us." Her voice broke, but she wiped her eyes and continued. "The hovercraft had to send out machinery to scrape the ground to get enough of her body back for us to bury, and the casket was closed, of course, but we were still able to have a funeral for her."

Clark hadn't seen the hovercraft when it came to pick up the bodies of those who died in the bloodbath — he'd been hiding in the brush by then. He'd seen some of what Mrs. Rasen described when he'd seen the highlights of the Games at his first post-Games interview, but neither Becky's death nor the details of what the Capitol had to do to retrieve her body were things he wanted to dwell on now.

"I wish I could have been here for the funeral," he told the Rasens. "What day was it?"

"The day after the Games ended," Saffron, Becky's oldest sister, replied. "You were still in the Capitol then."

Clark nodded, looking down. While Becky's family was burying their daughter and mourning her death, he had been asleep in a luxurious room in the Capitol. When they had returned to their cramped apartment to continue to eke out their meager living without one of their providers, he had been eating expensive food in the Capitol. He was being rewarded for outliving twenty-three other kids, one of whom was Becky. The Rasens were struggling to survive, while he would never again have to wonder where his next meal was coming from.

Remembering his primary reason for coming to visit, Clark lifted the bag of coins he'd been carrying and set it on the table. The Rasens looked at it in confusion.

Clark looked from the bag to the people seated around the table. "Becky told me about the work she did in the factory, and how she helped support the rest of you. With her gone, you've lost her wages and her tesserae. I know this can't make up for her loss, but … there's enough money here that you'll be able to get enough to eat for the next month, and there will be a like amount each month. The older ones won't have to take out more tesserae, and those who are too young to be Reaped won't have to take tesserae at all, because next year I'll give you another month's winnings spread out over the year, and the year after that, and … as long as I'm alive, you'll have enough to eat."

"No," Mr. Rasen told him. "Clark, I know you mean well, but we can't accept charity. Yes, we've lost Becky's wages and tesserae, but there's also one less mouth to feed."

"Not for long," Clark pointed out. He'd seen the small bulge of Mrs. Rasen's middle, and his superhearing had picked up on the unborn baby's heartbeat. It would be several years before the baby could contribute to the family's support — assuming it lived that long. The high infant mortality rate in District 9 was one of the reasons people often had large families.

"Nevertheless …" Mr. Rasen pushed the bag back in Clark's direction.

Shaking his head, Clark pushed it back. "It's not charity. When I told Caesar Flickerman that Becky was like a sister to me, I meant it. I never had a sister of my own, but Becky quickly became one to me. And like I told Caesar, the Kents do _take care of their own_. I would have protected Becky if I could have, but since I couldn't, I'm going to help you. Had she been victor, I'm sure she would have provided for you and for my parents."

Clark stood, walking towards the door before anyone could voice any further objections. There was a wealth of emotion in his voice as he said, "I don't want to you have to lose _another child_ the same way you lost Becky. I would feel like it was my fault if that happened and I hadn't done what I could to prevent it. I owe it to Becky … to Becky's memory. Please … take it. It's yours. I'm not taking it back."

With that, he walked out the door, closing it gently behind him.

*****

Clark walked quietly in the direction of the cemetery after leaving the Rasens. He'd known that they would probably object to his gift — it was a matter of pride in District 9 to be able to take care of oneself and one's family, even if it left them starving. People were suspicious of gifts — it meant they owed a debt to the giver, one that they might never be able to pay back. By phrasing his statement the way he had, he thought that it would be somewhat more acceptable. Assuming it as a debt on himself, to Becky's memory, should make it easier for them to accept.

Clark had been determined to give them the money, one way or another. Mr. and Mrs. Rasen might object now, but he was confident that they would use it to feed their hungry children, and probably themselves and the old woman, too. It was more acceptable to take help from a family member, which was why Clark had also emphasized that Becky had become like a sister to him. They weren't really family, but as far as he was concerned, it was close enough. He wanted nothing in exchange, and he sincerely hoped that he wouldn't be escorting another Rasen child to their death. Becky's death had been hard enough to deal with; he didn't want to watch one of her sisters or brothers die in the arena, too.

Clark felt certain that Becky would have done the same, had she been able to. In spite of her weakness, she had tried to help him after he'd suddenly become ill after being exposed to Platinum's Kryptonite pendant. If she had survived and he had died, she would have made sure his parents weren't left to starve.

Before Clark reached the cemetery, he stopped at a house surrounded by an enormous flower garden. Three battered glass greenhouses stood beside the house, also filled with flowering plants.

The woman who lived in the house and raised the flowers, Vena Solros, had once been a factory worker, but an accident had robbed her of several fingers. Since she could no longer do her job, she had been let go from the factory. With no family left to take her in, her future had looked bleak.

She'd had an advantage that many didn't have, though. She had been born into a merchant family — though reduced circumstances had eventually pushed her into the hard life of a factory worker. Her mother had always enjoyed growing and arranging flowers and had taught her daughter to do the same. Using this skill, she had managed to make a living by moving into the old house next to the cemetery — a place few people wanted to live — and growing and selling flowers. Flowers were a traditional part of District 9 weddings and funerals, but few people could afford to buy the expensive flowers shipped from the Capitol, and many people didn't have gardens in which to grow them. Wildflowers often took the place of garden flowers, but they were only available part of the year. Some people made do with dried flowers for weddings and funerals taking place in the winter, but those were also expensive to buy and weren't as well-liked as fresh flowers.

Despite the loss of several fingers, Vena was still able to garden, and the rent on the house next to the cemetery was cheap, so she was able to make her living selling flowers to mourners for far less than what the Capitol charged. With the greenhouses, she was even able to grow flowers in the winter when all the gardens were buried under the snow. Some people were leery of buying her flowers for weddings because of how closely she was associated with funerals, but others recognized that the flowers were just that — flowers — and weren't going to bring early death or other bad luck to a marriage.

Vena was working in her garden when Clark reached her front gate. She looked up when he pulled on the cord attached to a bell over the gate, ringing it to get her attention. Standing, she went to greet District 9's newest victor.

"Clark." She opened the gate to let him in. "Flowers for poor Becky Rasen, or did your friends finally set a date for their wedding?"

Clark shrugged. "I don't know yet what Pete and Lana have planned. I'm going to visit Becky's grave, so I thought I'd bring flowers."

Vena nodded. "I always give a discount on flowers for dead tributes."

"I don't need a discount," Clark told her. He'd set aside money to buy flowers for Becky.

"You'll get it anyway," Vena told him firmly. "It's bad enough that they're dead before their time — I'm not making a profit on it, too. It'll cost just what it cost me to grow them, and that's only so I can grow more. I give the same discount to Haver when he buys flowers for the graves of every dead tribute since his Games."

"Does Matilda buy flowers, too?" Clark asked.

"She sometimes buys them at the time of the funerals, or rather, her husband does. She's usually too strung out on morphling right after the Games to handle anything. I don't know if it'll be easier on her this year or not. She was still in the Capitol during Becky's funeral, and District 9 only lost one child this year." Vena smiled at Clark. "Everyone is glad you made it home. We hadn't had a victor in thirteen years, and you did us proud. You didn't turn into a savage like so many do."

Clark wasn't proud of his actions in the arena at all — the deaths of Lysander and Lois haunted him — but he just ducked his head and said, "Thank you. I'm just grateful to be alive." He wasn't sure about that, either — he would have sacrificed himself for Lois's sake if he could have — but there was nothing he could do to change things. He had to move forward, get through the festivities, and get on with his life.

Vena led Clark through the garden, pointing out the different flowers and telling him whether they symbolized anything. Clark finally selected fifteen blossoms of five different kinds, but shook his head when Vena asked if he wanted roses. Though the roses in her garden were natural varieties rather than the sickly-sweet smelling ones favored by President Snow, they still reminded him of the cold-eyed dictator and he wanted nothing to do with them.

When Vena told Clark the price, he shook his head. "That's not enough."

"I'd give them away if I could afford to," Vena told him. "I don't care if you victors are the richest people around — I'm still not making a profit on the deaths of tributes. If you want to give me more, come by in the spring and help me get this place ready for planting — it's not easy when you're missing four fingers."

Clark nodded — that sounded fair. "I will." He paid her the small amount she'd specified and left, the bouquet clutched in one hand.

*****

A short time later, Clark stepped through the District 9 cemetery gate and headed for the section reserved for Hunger Games tributes. It was more than half full, making him wonder what they would do when it filled up — he didn't see the Capitol eliminating District 9 from the Games. Would a new area be designated, or would the earliest graves be disinterred and the old bodies replaced?

Becky was the one hundred thirtieth tribute buried there. There had been two burials each year except in 10, 31, 53, and 66, plus two extra deaths in 50, when the rules of that year's Quarter Quell had demanded twice the number of tributes.

It didn't take Clark long to locate Becky's grave — it was the newest one, the tenth one in a row now half-filled. He looked uncomfortably at the spot next to it — another grave had been dug, then hastily filled back in when Clark was declared victor. In District 9, people were so used to losing their tributes that they dug their graves the day after they were Reaped.

Looking away from the spot that had been designated for his burial, Clark set the bouquet atop Becky's grave in front of the simple wooden cross that would mark it until the ground had a chance to settle and a more permanent marker — probably of stone, metal, or whatever else the Rasens could come up with, since it was traditional for the family of the deceased tribute to create the marker — would be put in its place. A few wilted flowers left from her funeral lay nearby.

Clark stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets and staring at the grave. It was small, shorter than expected, but given what had happened just after Becky's death, it was surprising there was anything to bury at all.

"Becky," he said quietly, "I'm sorry. I promised to protect you and then … I couldn't. I would have if it had been possible. Please believe me. I spent the whole Games thinking you'd been killed in the explosion, and if only I'd been able to get to you in time, I could have prevented it. Now I know that I couldn't have, but … I'm still sorry. I keep thinking that I should have been able to do something, because … because there's a lot of things I can do that no one else can, and yet I couldn't save one thirteen-year-old girl. You were like a sister to me, Becky, and I should have been able to protect you."

Clark's voice broke on the last word. He took his glasses off, quickly wiping his eyes, and went on. "I gave most of my first month's winnings to your family. I hope they accept it — I don't want your sisters and brothers to have to take out anymore tesserae. If your name hadn't been in the Reaping bowl so many times, you might not have been chosen, and you might have been able to spend your last days at home with your family, rather than in the Capitol with strangers. People tell me I didn't fail you, but I still don't believe it.

"I'm sorry, Becky," Clark whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm going to take care of your family for you, but … I wish you were here with them."

Clark fell silent when he heard footsteps approaching. Ducking his head to hide his red eyes, he polished his glasses on his shirt while he waited for the other person to reach him.

"Clark, are you okay?" Haver came up beside him, a large bundle of flowers in his arms.

"I … I'm fine." Clark looked away, taking a deep breath to compose himself.

"Vena said she saw you earlier, so I thought you might be here. I'll come back later if you'd rather be alone."

"No … it's okay." Clark put his glasses back on. "Do you need any help with that?"

"Sure." Haver let Clark take half the bundle of flowers. "Vena picked these for me early this morning — they're the best she grows. She could make a lot of money from these, but —"

"— but she only charges enough that she can grow more," Clark finished. "She told me the same thing."

"Her cousin died in the Quarter Quell in 50," Haver said, "so she has reason to hate the Games and to try to help the families of those who lose loved ones to them. I don't know how much it helps, but people are usually glad to be able to afford nice flowers for their lost children. Vena once told me that she'd give the flowers away, but then she wouldn't be able to afford to grow more and people would have to rely on Capitol flowers again, which most people can't afford."

Haver selected a flower from the bundle Clark held and set it on Becky's grave. "I usually do this the day after the funerals, but I was in the Capitol during the funeral this year. I can't say that I'm sorry, since it meant one less dead kid and one less grieving family. People are glad you came home, Clark," he added. "They won't celebrate as loudly and raucously as in the Capitol, because they're sorry about Becky, but they'll still celebrate your return. Unlike the Capitolites, people here didn't see you two as cheap entertainment — you and Becky were part of the community — and _you_ still are."

"It takes some getting used to," Clark confessed, "this whole business of being a victor. There's some good things about it, but …"

"I can't say it's going to be easy, Clark," Haver said, "especially when it comes time to mentor two more kids with the almost certain knowledge that they won't be coming home. Just remember who is really responsible — not the other districts, and not the other kids who get thrown into the Games — not even the Careers. It's the Capitol that requires the districts to send their children to die for entertainment."

Clark nodded, thinking of the other tributes he'd known. Even the most vicious of the Careers had been nothing more than pawns in a game designed to keep the districts in their place.

Haver took a flower from the bundle he was carrying and set it on the grave next to Becky's, that of the girl who had died the year before. Deceased tributes were buried in the order in which they'd died.

Clark walked along beside him, watching as Haver carefully selected the flowers for each tribute. It was obvious that he'd gotten to know each one well enough to know what would be appropriate. Clark wondered how Haver could stand it, mentoring kids year after year, getting to know them and then watching them die. In all those years, only he and Matilda had made it home. Haver had been left mourning seventy others, and Matilda had grown so bitter and cynical over the process that even when Clark had survived, she had only been able to think of what he would face in the future and had been unable to be happy that he was coming home.

Clark lingered for a moment at the grave of his classmate who had died in 62, the year that Clark had developed his heat and X-ray vision. He and Clark hadn't been close friends, but they had been acquaintances, and Clark had been upset when he was Reaped, as had most of the kids. The boy, Halm Reis, had been one of the most popular students, largely because he was friendly to everybody. It had been something of a surprise that he had managed to survive even a few days in the arena, but no one had been happy to see him die.

Two rows of graves beyond that, Clark stopped again at the grave of the uncle for whom he had been named. Clark Stam, Martha Kent's youngest brother, had been sixteen when he'd died in the 47th Annual Hunger Games. Less than a year later, Martha had found a baby boy in a rocket in a wheat field and named him for her brother, a tradition that had been going on since before the Dark Days. Clark had been the family's surname long before, but when there were no sons left with the name to pass it on, the daughters had started using it for a first name for their sons.

When Haver set down the last flower, Clark looked in surprise at the name on the grave marker. The long deceased tribute, Edith Dennings, had been Haver's district partner during his Games in 31, but it wasn't the fact that Haver was memorializing someone he hadn't been mentor for that surprised the young victor. It was the name that had caught his attention — Dennings had been the last name of District 9's first victor.

"Was she any relation to your mentor?" Clark asked Haver.

"Yes. She was John's youngest child. Her brother and sister are also buried here. Edith was also the last of his children."

"They … were all contestants in the Games? All of his children?"

"The Capitol loves legacy tributes, Clark. It was as true then as it is now."

Clark looked around, quickly finding the other two graves of the Dennings children. Remembering what Lois had said about the children of victors being Reaped so often that it couldn't be a coincidence, he asked, "Do you think it was a coincidence that they were Reaped?"

Haver hesitated. "If it had been just one of his children, I would say yes, or if they had taken out a massive amount of tesserae. As a victor's children, though, they never needed to take tesserae — they always had plenty to eat. One child might have been coincidence, but three … the odds against that are infinitesimal, especially since they were all Reaped at age seventeen, the same age as their father was when he won the Games in 10."

Clark glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. "So … you think the Capitol made sure they would be Reaped?"

"You've seen how excited the Capitolites get about legacy tributes — remember their reaction to Lysander?"

"But Lysander was a Career. He volunteered."

"In the Career districts, it's considered an honor for the children of victors to take part in the Games. Mark my words, though — if he hadn't volunteered, the Capitol would have found a way to put him in the Games anyway. In the Career districts, volunteers are approved ahead of time by their mentors. Had Lysander not been approved, he would have been Reaped, and District 2 would have been _strongly encouraged_ not to send a male volunteer in his place."

"His father could have protected him —"

"Like I've said before, Clark, I'm not even going to speculate on how Lex Luthor's mind works. Suffice it to say that his son wound up in the arena, where all his training was no match for a good shove from you."

Clark flinched. "I didn't want to kill him!"

"I know you didn't. I didn't want to kill anyone, either. It was a matter of survival."

"Did you kill …" Clark gestured to Edith's grave.

Haver shook his head. "No. She was killed in a landslide … a Gamemaker trap."

Clark looked at the overgrown grave at his feet, then glanced at the other Dennings graves. "Matilda said that your mentor — John — that he walked in front of an angry bull."

"He died in the autumn of 31 after being gored and trampled by a bull known for its temper. Are you asking if he did it on purpose?"

"Ah … well … yes." It wasn't a question Clark liked to ask, but when they had learned the history of the Hunger Games in school just before they were old enough participate, the death of the district's first victor had been mentioned, though the teacher had refused to confirm or deny the rumor that he had committed suicide. Now that Clark was a victor himself, he thought it was appropriate to ask.

"Nothing was ever proven — like I said, the bull was known for its temper — but I think the answer to that question is … yes. John didn't have much left to live for — all of his children were dead, and his wife left him after Edith died. Other people have lost as much and continued on with life — he didn't leave a note or anything, but before he died, he took all of his money and valuables and gave them to his ex-wife. The Capitol would have taken everything back if he'd still owned it when he died, but by giving it away, he made sure they couldn't legally take it." When Clark started to ask another question, Haver put up his hand. "That's all I know." Glancing at his watch, he added, "The banquet is in a couple of hours. It won't be like the one in the Capitol — it's more of a luncheon — but you'll still want to look presentable and make sure your parents are on time."

"They will be." Clark looked around at the tribute graves one more time, then turned to leave. "Haver?" The older man looked back at him. "I think what you do each year … putting flowers on the graves of all the kids you've mentored … it's a good thing. It means they're not forgotten."

"I've never forgotten a single one of them, Clark. I only wish more than two had survived."

"I don't think I'll forget any of them, either."

"It might be easier if you could forget, but I think you'll remember them, too. Maybe the three of us will have more luck bringing kids home than Matilda and I did before."


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rachel was sitting on the front porch of his house when Clark returned to Victor's Village. He stopped short at the sight of her, unsure of whether he was glad to see her or whether he would have preferred putting off this confrontation until a later time — a much later time.

"Uh … Rachel … um … hi." Clark walked slowly up the steps. "Ah … have you been waiting long?"

Rachel shook her head. "I just got here a few minutes ago. I thought you might be with your parents, but I decided to wait a little while and see if you showed up here."

"Well, I _do_ live here … actually, the Capitol makes me live here. It really isn't my choice." Clark hesitated a moment before going on, "I visited with my parents earlier this morning, helped them with the chores. They'll be here in about half an hour or so — we're all going to the Victory luncheon. I … I'd invite you, but … the guest list is pre-selected, and I'm not allowed to invite anyone …"

"It's okay," Rachel assured him, though she looked disappointed. "I'll see you at the dinner this evening, won't I?"

"Yeah … yeah, that would be nice. Um … would you like to come in?"

Rachel nodded, standing as she did. Clark lifted a flowerpot, picking up the key. "This place actually has locks on the doors. Can you believe it?"

"Lots of places in town do, though people rarely use them except to lock businesses up," Rachel pointed out.

"Yes, but … I'm not used to it. There are no locks on the farm."

"There's none on the Harris farm, either," Rachel agreed, "but I guess the Capitol thinks you have something to protect."

"I guess." Stealing in District 9 was punishable by death, even for the most minor infractions, though the penalty was seldom carried out. In the small, close-knit community, most thefts were done out of desperation, and most victims opted to call the crime borrowing, if it was something that could be returned, or a trade, if it was something where the debt could be worked off. The Peacekeepers usually complied with the wishes of the victim — executing someone was a sure way to turn the community against them, and people could make life difficult for those they had turned against, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. The rare executions that did take place were usually carried out by Peacekeepers from outside the community.

As far as Clark was concerned, if someone was desperate enough to steal from him, he would say that he had given the item to the thief, thus avoiding the whole issue. He had no desire to see anyone die over a bit of food or a few coins — or even larger items.

Clark opened the door and let Rachel inside. "I wanted you and Pete and Lana to see the house last night, but I guess you had things to do at home."

Rachel looked away from him, shuffling her feet uncomfortably. "I actually didn't want to talk to you in front of the cameras. Pete and Lana … well …"

"They think I was cheating on you, don't they? They're mad at me because of Lois."

"I think that's part of it," Rachel admitted. "There's other things, too." She stopped, and started looking around worriedly. "There aren't any cameras here, are there?" she asked quietly.

"No," Clark told her. "I couldn't sleep last night, so I went all around and looked. Just don't say anything that might be construed as rebellion in the downstairs bathroom." He gestured to a closed door down the hallway. "It's bugged."

Rachel looked at him oddly, then shrugged. She didn't understand why anyone would put a listening device in a bathroom, but the Capitol was known for being strange.

Clark turned toward the kitchen. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to drink — some coffee, maybe?"

"Sure … coffee would be nice."

Rachel sat at the kitchen table while Clark examined the coffee maker, trying to figure out how it worked. Many of the kitchen devices were new to him.

Finally, when he had it figured out and the coffee was brewing, Clark took a package of cookies from a cabinet and set some on a plate, setting the plate in the middle of the table. He sat down across from Rachel and looked at her, not sure what to say.

"Rachel, I —" he began.

"Clark —" Rachel started at the same time.

"Go ahead," Clark told her.

"Clark … you were asking about Pete and Lana. I think they are a little bit upset with you because of Lois — I told them that I'd promised to wait for you if you made it home. That's only part of it, though." Rachel looked down, taking a cookie and nibbling on it absently. "We … none of us really expected you to come home. You're strong, but you're also a nice person, a decent person — and no one decent ever wins the Hunger Games. We thought you might try to help someone and get yourself killed, because you've never been able to see someone in trouble without wanting to help."

"And then it turned out I wasn't as nice or decent as you thought," he challenged.

Rachel looked uncomfortable. "We were surprised when you killed that boy. Even though it was the Games, no one thought of you as a killer. And then …"

"And then I did something I shouldn't have done, something that would get me hanged for murder here." Clark stood, unable to stay still. Striding over to the coffee maker, he poured two cups, then brought them back to the table. Rachel watched as he went through the cabinets and refrigerator, looking for milk and sugar. In truth, he already knew where everything was, but sitting still and facing Rachel at the moment was more than Clark could handle.

"It's not illegal to kill someone in the Games," Rachel pointed out. "You have to do it to stay alive."

"But I didn't _have_ to kill him," Clark replied. "I didn't mean to, either. It was an _accident_ — _one that shouldn't have happened_. You're afraid of me now, aren't you?" he went on. "You and Pete and Lana … I used to be someone you could trust, but you can't anymore."

"Clark, no. We still trust you. It's just … none of us is sure what to _say_ to you. You've been away … not away for a long time, only a few weeks … but what we saw you go through in the Games … nobody's quite sure what to say to you now. Everybody's seen what a mess our two older victors are, and we didn't know what you'd be like now that you're back. We're not afraid of you, Clark. We just … don't know what to say," she finished with a dispirited air.

Clark set a cup of coffee in front of Rachel and went back to lean against the counter, staring into his own cup. "Maybe you _should_ be afraid of me," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Maybe you should be afraid of me," he told Rachel more clearly. "I'm not the naïve, innocent farm boy whose name was drawn from the Reaping bowl three weeks ago. I'm a victor now, and to become victor, I had to do things I never thought I'd do. I found out that I'm capable of things I never thought possible."

Clark had always tried to do the right thing, especially after his strange abilities began to develop and it became clear that he could do a great deal of damage if he wasn't careful. He'd never wanted to hurt anyone, and had always tried to use his abilities for good, even if he had to do things in secret. He'd taken pride in the fact that he wasn't what the unknown people who had created him had intended — he was sure that, like most muttations, he had been intended as a weapon. Instead, his unknown creators had somehow lost him, leaving him to be raised by two kind, decent people who had taught him to be caring and compassionate, and to do what he could to make life better for those around him.

Now, everything had changed. A week earlier, he had naively thought that he might make it through the Hunger Games without killing anyone. Now, two people were dead at his hands, and though Lysander's death had been an accident, Lois's had not. He had frozen her to end her suffering, but a mercy killing was still a killing.

Clark no longer trusted himself as he had before. He couldn't completely control everything in his life, and when he got careless or angry, he could be very dangerous. Because of him, two kids were dead, and their families and friends had been left to grieve over them. Though he doubted the scientists who had designed him knew it, he had turned out as dangerous as they had hoped. The difference was, he had a conscience, so he knew what he had done was wrong. He didn't know if this knowledge would be enough to stop him from harming people in the future, though — not with Snow's threats hanging over him, and not with his own uncertainty that he would do what was right if he had to make a tough decision.

Clark looked up as Rachel stood and came to lean against the counter next to him. "You did what you _had_ to," she told him quietly. "We've all seen the Games." This time she pronounced it with a sneer, almost as an epithet. "Year after year, kids kill each other to survive. They don't have a choice. _You_ didn't have a choice. But you're _home_ now, and you don't have to fight to stay alive. It's over, and now you can get back to normal. You don't have to be like your mentors. They let themselves fall apart, even though winning meant they had everything they could ever want."

"I don't think they _let_ themselves fall apart," Clark told her. "Being in the Games isn't like watching them on television. Even though you know two people — people who usually die — you aren't a part of it. You don't have to fear for your own life, and you don't have to live with the knowledge that if you live, your district partner — and anyone else you've come to know and like — is going to die," he said with a catch in his throat. "Next year, I'll escort two more kids to the Games, where at least one, and probably both, will die."

"I've known every District 9 tribute who has been in the Games during my life — at least in passing," Rachel told him. "I know that it hurts to see them die."

"It's not the same. You don't spend those few days between the Reaping and the Games getting to know them, knowing that you'll have to face their families when the Games are over and you escort their bodies home. I went to see the Rasens this morning. I tried to help Becky, to keep her alive, and I couldn't. She didn't even make it long enough to step off her launch plate. Now her family is suffering because she's gone. I gave them some money for food, but it can't make up for the fact that they've lost their daughter. When they see me, they see someone who lived while their child died — and every year after this, more families are going to see that. They're going to see another mentor who couldn't bring their children home.

"When I go on the Victory Tour in six months, all those families of this year's tributes are going to have to see the boy who survived while their children died. They'll have to present me with gifts — plaques and flowers and such — all the while knowing that I'm only alive because their children are dead. Lysander's family will have to look me in the eye and pretend to be happy about my victory, even though I killed him. I'll have to face Lois's family —"

Unthinkingly, Clark tightened his grip around his coffee cup. It imploded, shards of ceramic and hot coffee flying everywhere. "Damn!" he swore. "Damn, damn, _damn_!"

Rachel gasped in surprise, jumping out of the way. "Clark, are you okay?" She reached for his hand, wondering if he'd cut himself.

To her surprise, he yanked his hand away, not letting her see it. "I'm fine," he said abruptly.

Rachel gave him a hurt look. He shook his head, looking at her. "Are you okay? Did you get cut? Did the coffee burn you?"

"No … I'm okay. Some of the coffee got on my shirt, but it'll wash." She touched the worn cotton fabric.

"I'll buy you a new one," Clark told her.

"No." It was Rachel's turn to be abrupt. "It's fine." She looked at him as he picked up the shards, noting with some confusion that the sharp edges didn't seem to bother him at all. "Clark, be careful. You'll cut yourself."

Clark dropped the shards into the waste bin, then wiped up the spilled coffee. "I'm okay. My hands are so callused that not much can get through them."

Rachel looked at her own callused hands. She, too, had grown up on a farm and had tough hands because of it, but she would have been leery about touching the sharp edges of the broken ceramic. Then again, Clark did sometimes seem to be stronger and tougher than one might expect — traits that undoubtedly had helped him win the Games.

Clark rinsed out the dishrag and turned to face Rachel again. "I think there may have been a hairline crack in that cup," he said. "I didn't expect it to break."

"Maybe you shouldn't squeeze fragile things," she suggested. Clark looked a bit uncomfortable, so she changed the subject. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Clark, about Lois —"

"It wasn't what you think," Clark interrupted her. "It wasn't a tragic love story. We were friends — nothing more," he said defensively.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "Really? It was all just an act?"

"No … it wasn't an act. We really became … uh … were friends. We did work to keep each other alive — but it wasn't love."

"Did Lois know that?"

"Of course. Didn't you see when she called me her best friend?"

"And then she kissed you."

"She was dying!"

"You didn't kiss that other girl when she was dying!"

"Mayson? No … she didn't want to kiss me. I helped her because I didn't want to see her suffer."

"But you did kiss Lois."

"She kissed me!" He was starting to be irritated at her insistence.

"I didn't notice you objecting!"

Clark couldn't argue with that, so he just crossed his arms and avoided Rachel's eyes.

"Clark … when I promised to wait for you, I did it because I thought there was something between us."

"You didn't think I'd come home, though. It wasn't a promise you were likely to have to keep."

Clark immediately knew that he'd said the wrong thing. He barely moved in time to keep Rachel from injuring herself when she slapped him. "I meant every word of it!" she shouted. "Clark, I thought we had something — a relationship, an understanding!"

Clark stepped away from her, rubbing his cheek, though it didn't hurt. "I did, too," he admitted. "I wondered where our relationship might go. I thought it might turn into more than friendship." He turned back to look at her. "I didn't make you any promises, though."

"You didn't tell me not to wait for you."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Clark had indeed considered a future with Rachel, though he'd known that it would be difficult. His extraordinary abilities made him different from everyone else, and he would have been hard-pressed to hide them from a wife. Even if he could have hidden most of them, his occasional sleep-floating would have been noticed eventually. It happened most often when he was worried or under stress, and it was impossible to completely avoid those things.

"You know what makes it even worse, Clark? A lot of people thought you and I would get married someday, but after they saw you in the arena with Lois, and heard the commentators talking about the 'doomed romance,' they looked at me with _pity_. I don't know if there is anything worse than pity. They felt sorry for me because you were with another girl. I even overheard someone say that I wasn't enough for you! No, actually, inadequacy has to be worse than pity!"

"Rachel, that's not true. You're wonderful. You're beautiful, you're smart … and you'll make a great wife for some lucky man."

"But not you."

"No … but _not_ because of Lois."

"There's _someone else_?!" Rachel looked at him in disbelief.

"No. There isn't anyone else. I … I'm never going to marry _anyone_."

"You're a victor. You can have your pick of women!"

"I know, and if I did intend to marry, I'd choose you … if you wanted me."

"So why —"

"I went to the tribute cemetery earlier today to visit Becky's grave. Haver was there and I helped him put flowers on the graves of all the tributes who have died since he became victor. The last flower was for his district partner, Edith." At Rachel's confused look, he went on. "Edith was the daughter of this district's first victor, John Dennings. She was the youngest of three children — and her brother and sister are also buried in the tribute cemetery. The _Capitol_ took them _all_. They love legacy tributes, and so the Reaping was rigged so they would be in the Games.

"Rachel, I can't do it. I can't bring children into the world so the Capitol can kill them for entertainment. I couldn't bear seeing them born and raising them, and then escorting them to their deaths. I just can't do it — and I won't do that to you. Your children will be eligible for the Reaping, but if they're selected, it will be by chance. It won't be a foregone conclusion like it would be if _I_ was their father."

Clark turned away, running a hand through his hair nervously. "I won't put any other woman through that, either. My parents lost three babies after they had me, and I saw how hard it was on them. Imagine how much harder it would have been if they'd had a chance to raise them and get to know them, and then lost them. They were devastated when I was Reaped — I was the only child they had left. And even though I made it home, it's not the same. I'm not the boy they said good-bye to at the Justice Building three weeks ago. I've changed, and they noticed it just as much as you and Pete and Lana did."

He turned back to her, wincing at the sight of the tears she was trying to hide. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, but he had just the same. "It's not about Lois, Rachel. It has nothing to do with her. She was just a friend … and she's … dead." He walked toward her, stopping when she put a hand out to keep him away. "You're a great person, Rachel. I wish things were different. If I hadn't been Reaped …"

"But you were, and things are different. I knew things had changed when I saw you in the Games, but I kept hoping that if you came back, it would be okay. It's not, though. You're a victor now, with a whole different life — and your heart belongs to someone else."

Clark sighed, following Rachel to the door. "Rachel, please believe me. Lois has nothing to do with this. She was a good friend, one I was glad to defend, but that's all she was."

Rachel turned back to him as she opened the door. "You know, Clark, I'd be a lot more willing to believe you about Lois if you believed it."

"What?"

"You say she was just a friend, but the way you look when you talk about her says otherwise."

"Rachel, I —"

"Good-bye, Clark."

"I'll see you tonight, won't I? At the Victory dinner?"

"I'll be there, but you won't see me. I'll tell Pete and Lana that you want to see them, though."

"We're still friends, aren't we, Rachel?"

Her mouth trembled as she turned away from him. "No, Clark. I don't think so."

She hurried down the steps and to the gate, closing it quietly behind her. Clark watched as she walked down the road, and in all probability, out of his life, his heart breaking as he listened to her sobs.


End file.
